THE 
LIFE  OF 

JOEL 

CHANDLER 

HARRIS 


ROBERT 
LEMUEL 
WIGGINS 


::::::::::::::  ..................... 


The  Life 

of 

Joel  Chandler  Harris 


WITH 
: 

: 
: 
: 
I 

: 


From  Obscurity  in  Boyhood  to  Fame 
in  Early  Manhood 


Short  Stories  and  Other  Early  Literary 
j  Work  Not  Heretofore 

Published  in  Book  Form 


By  Robert  Lemuel  Wiggins,  Ph.D. 

Professor  of  English  in  Birmingham-Southern  Collegg 
Birmingham,  Ala. 


Nashville,  Tenn. 
Dallas,  Tex.;  Richmond,  Va. 

Publishing  House  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  South 
Smith  &  Lamar,  Agents 

'9'8 


COPYRIGHT,  1918 

BY 
SMITH  &  LAMAR 


PREFACE 

OPPORTUNITY  to  contribute  to  the  knowledge  of  Joel 
Chandler  Harris  came  to  the  author,  a  native  of  Georgia, 
while  he  was  living  in  the  city  of  Atlanta.  'The  Sign  of  the 
Wren's  Nest"  was  thrown  open  to  him  by  Mrs.  Harris 
just  as  she  began  setting  things  in  order  for  the  approaching 
occupancy  of  the  home  by  the  Uncle  Remus  Memorial  As 
sociation.  She  generously  laid  before  him  Mr.  Harris's 
boyhood  scrapbooks,  an  invaluable  file  of  The  Country 
man,  letters,  pertinent  clippings,  etc.,  and  through  leisurely 
conversation  from  day  to  day  afforded  such  illumination  on 
the  life  and  character  of  her  husband  as  could  come  from 
no  other  source.  Further  researches  were  made  in  Eaton- 
ton,  Forsyth,  Savannah,  and  Atlanta,  in  each  of  which 
places  were  still  living  those  who  had  known  Harris  in  his 
boyhood  or  young  manhood  previous  to  the  publication  of 
"Uncle  Remus"  and  were  glad  to  give  facts  that  might 
be  got  only  from  their  memories.  Especial  mention  must 
be  made  of  Mrs.  George  Starke,  whose  reminiscences  were 
strengthened  by  letters  that  she  has  permitted  to  be  used. 
The  most  valuable  documentary  sources  of  information 
were  the  files  of  The  Countryman  and  the  Atlanta  Con 
stitution,  which  were  diligently  searched  page  by  page, 
the  former  exhaustively  and  the  latter  from  the  year  of 
Harris's  first  association  with  the  paper  down  to  1881. 

The  author  is  under  particular  obligation  to  Professor 
W.  P.  Trent,  of  Columbia  University,  who  read  the  manu 
script  of  this  work  and  gave  scholarly  advice.  He  is  also 
indebted  to  Professor  James  Hinton,  of  Emory  University, 
for  kindly  criticisms  and  suggestions.  A  portion  of  the 
work  was  submitted  as  a  dissertation  in  partial  fulfillment  of 
the  requirements  for  the  degree  of  doctor  of  philosophy  at 

(Hi) 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  fame  and  popularity  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris  fol 
lowed  instantly  upon  the  publication  of  his  first  book, 
in  1880,  and  have  steadily  grown  and  spread  until  he 
has  attained  a  permanent  place  in  the  world's  literature. 
His  ability  and  talent  are  evident  in  all  that  he  wrote  as 
poet,  editor,  historian,  novelist,  and  short-story  writer;  but 
his  genius  triumphs  in  his  negro  folk  tales,  and  these  are 
carrying  his  name  around  the  world. 

"Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings"  had  been  off 
the  press  only  about  two  weeks  when  the  publishers  wrote : 

Dear  Mr.  Harris:  The  firm  are  well  pleased  at  the  suc 
cess  of  "Uncle  Remus."  We  have  sold  two  editions  of  fif 
teen  hundred  each,  and  the  third  edition  of  fifteen  hundred 
more  will  be  in  on  Friday.  Of  these,  some  five  hundred  are 
ordered.  Mr.  Charles  A.  Dana  told  me  in  my  office  last 
week  as  follows :  "Derby,  'Uncle  Remus'  is  a  great  book. 
It  will  not  only  have  a  large,  but  a  permanent,  an  enduring 
sale." 

Yours  truly,  J.  C.  DERBY.1 

In  1915  the  publishers  reported  fifty-two  printings  of  this 
book.  "Nights  with  Uncle  Remus"  has  passed  through  six 
editions.  "Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends"  has  appeared  in 
editions  of  1892,  1900,  1913,  and  1914. 

In  England  "Uncle  Remus"  was  published  very  soon  after 

1Mr.  J.  C.  Derby,  as  representative  of  the  publishers,  went  to  At 
lanta  and  assisted  Mr.  Harris  in  selecting  from  the  files  of  the  At 
lanta  Constitution  those  tales,  sketches,  songs,  and  proverbs  that 
make  up  the  volume. 


2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

it  appeared  in  this  country,  and  its  popularity  there  has 
equaled  its  popularity  here.  Ten  publishing  houses  in  Lon 
don  have  produced  editions.  Rudyard  Kipling  has  ex 
pressed  his  admiration  of  Harris's  work,  acknowledging 
indebtedness  to  him  from  the  age  of  fifteen,  when  "Uncle 
Remus"  legends  "ran  like  wildfire  through  an  English  pub 
lic  school/'1 

On  April  24,  1914,  W.  Francis  Aitken  wrote :  "So  far  as 
I  can  gather  from  memory  and  from  others  who  should 
know,  the  Uncle  Remus  series  is  as  well  known  in  England 
almost  as  the  'Fables'  of  JEsop,  but  no  one  has  written 
anything  about  him  that  stands  out  by  reason  of  its  intrinsic 
importance."  Punch  and  Westminster  Gazette  have  adapt 
ed  the  Uncle  Remus  idea  to  political  caricature.  A  cable 
gram  from  London,  published  in  the  Atlanta  Journal  April 
16,  1914,  tells  fully  of  "  'Brer  Rabbit  and  Mr.  Fox,'  which 
was  presented  for  the  first  time  on  any  stage  at  the  Aldwych 
Theater  to  a  delighted  and  astonished  audience/'2  The 
London  Sunday  Times  of  May  3,  1914,  indicates  the  equal 
success  of  the  dramatization  at  the  Little  Theater.3  The 
"Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature,"  now  being 
published,  allots  a  chapter  to  Harris. 

In  Germany,  the  culture  ground  of  folklore  study,  we 
may  presume  that  this  author  will  be  a  growing  figure.  In 
1910-11,  as  Roosevelt  Professor  in  the  University  of  Berlin, 
Dr.  C.  Alphonso  Smith,  presenting  a  survey  of  American 
literature,  devoted  two  entire  lectures  out  of  thirty  to  "Joel 

'From  a  letter  to  Mr.  Harris,  dated  Naulakha,  Waite,  Wendham 
Co.,  Vermont,  December  6,  1895.  Mr.  Kipling  inquired  especially  as 
to  the  source  of  "Miss  Meadows  and  the  Girls." 

2The  Atlanta  Journal,  April  16,  1914. 

3The  London  Sunday  Times,  May  3,  1914;  also  Current  Opinion, 
July,  1914,  Vol.  LVII.,  page  30,  "Brer  Rabbit  and  Mr.  Fox  as  Foot- 
light  Favorites  in  London." 


Introduction  3 

Chandler  Harris,  eine  Abhandlung  uber  den  Neger  als  liter- 
arisches  Objekt."  And  he  pronounced  "Uncle  Remus" 
"the  most  important  individual  contribution  to  American 
literature  since  iS?©."1  Whereupon  the  German  reviewers 
responded  with  especial  notice  of  Harris.  Then  followed 
the  first  really  acceptable  history  of  American  literature  by 
a  German,  Dr.  Leon  Kellner,  professor  in  the  University  of 
Czernowitz,  who  gives  the  "Tar  Baby  Story"  in  English  and 
translates  it  into  German,  declares  that  Harris  has  shown 
the  deepest  insight  into  the  soul  of  the  American  negro, 
and  accords  him  major  writer's  space.2 

In  France  translation  of  the  Uncle  Remus  stories  has 
been  included  in  a  series  known  as  "Les  Livres  Roses  Pour 
La  Jeunesse."3  As  stated  in  Smith's  bibliography  of  Harris  : 

W.  T.  Stead  (London  Review  of  Reviews)  began  in  1896 
a  series  known  as  "Books  for  the  Bairns,"  of  which  "The 
Wonderful  Adventure  of  Old  Brer  Rabbit"  (July-September, 
1896)  was  No.  6,  "More  Stories  about  Old  Brer  Rabbit" 
(January-March,  1898)  No.  20,  and  "Brer  Fox  and  Brer 
Rabbit"  (January-June,  1901)  No.  61.  These  three  num 
bers  included  twenty-eight  stories,  fourteen  [fifteen]  from 
"Uncle  Remus"  and  fourteen  [thirteen]  from  "Nights  with 
Uncle  Remus."  No.  6  was  translated  into  French  as  "Les 
Merveilleuses  Aventures  du  Vieux  Frere  Lapin,"  Paris, 
1910;  No.  20,  as  "Nouvelles  Aventures  du  Vieux  Frere  La- 

1Dfe  Amerikanische  Literatur  (Berlin,  1912),  page  31:  "Uncle 
Remus:  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings"  (1880)  (Seine  Lieder  und 
Auspruche)  ist  der  wichstigste  einzelne  Beitrag  zur  amerikanischen 
Literatur  seit  1870." 

2Geschichte  der  nordamerikanischen  Literatur  (Berlin  and  Leipsic, 
1913),  Vol.  II.,  pages  75-82.  "Den  tiefsten  Blick  in  die  Seele  des 
amerikanischen  Negers  hat  Joel  Chandler  Harris."  (Doubleday, 
Page  &  Co.  brought  this  work  out  in  America,  translated  from  the 
German  by  Julia  Franklin,  May,  1915.) 

'Librarie  Larousse,  Paris,  1910-11. 


4  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

pin,"  Paris,  1911;  and  No.  61,  as  "Frere  Renard  et  Frere 
Lapin,"  Paris,  191 1.1 

In  Australia  the  booksellers  carry  "Uncle  Remus"  in  their 
regular  stock.2 

In  India  during  1917  a  boys'  magazine  called  Balak  (the 
Bengali  for  boy),  published  at  Calcutta,  carried  a  series  of 
the  legends  translated  into  Bengali  by  C.  E.  Prior,  a  mis 
sionary.8 

In  Japan  recently  a  guest  in  a  Japanese  home  found 
"Uncle  Remus"  the  only  book  in  English. 

Finally,  in  their  Harris  form  the  tales  are  going  back  to 
Africa.4 

In  America,  of  course,  "Uncle  Remus"  is  a  name  through 
which  the  ends  of  the  continent  may  enter  at  once  into 
friendly  acquaintance.  Mr.  Harris  was  loved  by  the  little 
children  and  honored  by  the  great  men  of  his  country.  Con 
temporary  authors  paid  highest  tribute  to  him  and  sought 
association  with  him.  President  Roosevelt  declared  that 
Georgia  had  done  no  greater  thing  than  giving  Harris  to 
American  literature.5  He  afterwards  prevailed  upon  the 
"most  modest  writer  in  America"  to  be  his  guest  at  the 
White  House.0  Andrew  Carnegie  visited  Harris  in  1906 

Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature. 

2Report  of  National  Secretary  Young  Women's  Christian  Associa 
tion. 

3C.  E.  Prior,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Harris  from  Calcutta,  November  8, 
1916,  published  in  the  Atlanta  Georgian,  January  16,  1917. 

*Mrs.  Myrta  Locked:  Avary.  Introduction  to  the  Visitors'  Edition 
of  "Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends,"  1914. 

BBanquet  speech  in  Atlanta,  1905. 

"Letters  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris.  Mr.  Roosevelt,  says  Mrs. 
A.  McD.  Wilson,  President  Uncle  Remus  Memorial  Association, 
made  possible  the  Association's  purchase  of  the  Wren's  Nest  by 
donating  to  the  purpose  the  proceeds  of  a  lecture  in  Atlanta,  about 
$5,ooo.  Later  Mr.  Carnegie  contributed  a  like  amount. 


Introduction  5 

and  later  subscribed  himself  on  a  portrait  presented  to  the 
Wren's  Nest  as  "not  only  an  admirer,  but  a  loving  friend, 
of  that  rare  soul."  Mark  Twain,  in  letter  after  letter, 
entreated  Harris  to  visit  him.1  Riley  spent  some  time 
in  genial  and  affectionate  association  with  Mr.  Harris  and 
his  family  in  Atlanta.  He  afterwards  wrote  the  following 
letter : 

PHILADELPHIA,  December  30,  1905. 
Joel  Chandler  Harris,  Esq. 

Dear  Friend:  Your  book  of  "New  Stories  of  the  Old 
Plantation"  is  here  from  your  generous  hand,  and  I  am  as 
tickled  over  it  as  old  Brer  Rabbit  on  the  front  cover.  And 
I  think  it's  the  best  of  all  Christmas  books  this  year,  just  as 
last  Christmas  your  "Tar  Baby  Rhymes"  led  all  the  list.  La ! 
but  I  want  to  see  you  and  talk  with  you,  loaf  with  you,  me 
ander  round  with  you,  or  set  still,  jes'  a-tradinj  laughs  or 
shut  clean  to  a-sayin'  nothin'  'cause  we  don't  haf  to ! 

To-day  I  got  off  four  books  to  your  care  (by  express). 
Nothin*  new  but  the  pictures,  which  in  spots  at  least  I 
know'll  please  you.  How  in  fancy  I  see  us  a-really  a-meet- 
in'  up  again,  after  these  long  years,  and  a-throwin'  our 
heads  back,  a-sorto*  teeterin'  on  one  foot  and  a-hittin'  the 
ground  with  the  t'other,  same  lak  a-peltin'  a  old  dusty  cyar- 
pet  with  a  wet  umbrell ! 

And  now,  on  the  dawn  of  the  new  year,  come  to  you  the 
heartfelt  greetings  and  praises  and  gratefulness  of 

Your  fraternal,  ever-loving  old  Hoosier  friend, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

P.  S. — To  your  household  all  fervent  best  wishes  and  con 
tinuous.  Do  write  to  me!2 

Thomas  Nelson  Page  wished  Harris  to  join  him  on  a 
lecture-reading  tour8  and  declared :  "No  man  who  has  ever 
written  has  known  one-tenth  part  about  the  negro  that  Mr. 

1Letters  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris. 

2Letter  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris. 

"Letter  dated  Richmond,  Va.,  September  27,  1887. 


6  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Harris  knows."1  And  George  W.  Cable  is  said  to  have 
"smiled  at  all  Southern  names  except  Uncle  Remus."2 

The  Uncle  Remus  Memorial  Association,  organized  in 
Atlanta  July  10,  1908  (one  week  after  the  great  writer's 
death),  purchased  his  home,  "The  Sign  of  the  Wren's  Nest," 
January  18,  1913,  and  has  equipped  it  as  a  permanent  me 
morial.  During  the  first  year  1,300  visitors  registered;  and 
from  January  to  December,  1914,  2,523  registered,  from 
forty-five  States  and  seven  foreign  countries. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  has  made  a  permanent 
contribution  to  literature,  is  the  most  popularly  read  Amer 
ican  author,  and  has  been  highly  honored,  no  biography  of 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  has  ever  been  written  nor  any  ade 
quate  study  of  his  career  undertaken.  Of  the  various  inter 
esting  biographical  sketches  that  have  appeared,  the  most 
extensive  was  written  by  Mrs.  Myrta  Lockett  Avary  in 
1913,  published  as  a  souvenir  pamphlet  by  the  Uncle  Remus 
Memorial  Association.  Especially  has  the  earlier  half  of 
the  author's  life  been  hastily  passed  over.  The  present 
volume,  therefore,  is  based  upon  exhaustive  researches,  with 
particular  reference  to  formative  influences  in  his  career, 
and  covers  Mr.  Harris's  life  from  obscurity  in  boyhood  to 
fame  in  early  manhood. 

*As  quoted  by  Baskervill  in  "Southern  Writers." 
2New    Orleans    letter    from    Boston   Post,   Atlanta    Constitution, 
August  5,  1881. 


PART  I 

BIOGRAPHICAL 


I 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  was  born  in  Eatonton, 
Putnam  County,  Georgia,  December  9,  1848,  and  died 
at  his  home,  "The  Sign  of  the  Wren's  Nest/'  in  Atlanta, 
about  8  P.M.,  July  3,  1908.' 

One  hundred  and  fifteen  years  had  afforded  abundant 
time  for  descendants  of  the  Oglethorpe  colony,  together 
with  their  immigrating  neighbors  from  Virginia  and  North 
Carolina,  to  transform  wild  hunting  grounds  and  small 
maize  fields  of  the  Creeks  and  Cherokees  into  great  planta 
tions  and  wealthy  towns.  During  the  final  decade  of  slav 
ery  ease  and  leisure  were  promoting  the  advance  of  culture, 
especially  in  Middle  Georgia,  and  herein  lies  the  significance 
to-day  of  the  phrase  "one  of  the  good  old  towns"  that  is 
applied  to  Eatonton. 

Still  a  small  place  of  about  two  thousand  people,  preserv 
ing  much  of  its  ante-bellum  character,  it  is  near  the  geo 
graphical  center  of  the  State.  It  is  certainly  significant  that 
within  a  day's  drive  of  this  village  were  born,  before  and 
during  the  time  of  Harris,  most  of  Georgia's  outstanding 
leaders  in  religion,  literature,  government,  and  war.  In  the 
same  county  was  born  L.  Q.  C.  Lamar;  in  the  adjoining 
county  of  Jasper,  Ben  Hill ;  to  the  north,  about  forty  miles, 
Henry  W.  Grady  and  Atticus  G.  Hayggood ;  to  the  northeast, 
less  than  fifty  miles,  Alexander  Stephens,  James  O.  Andrew, 
Robert  Toombs,  and,  nearer  by  half,  George  F.  Pierce;  to 
the  southwest,  within  fifty  miles,  John  B.  Gordon;  to  the 
south,  less  than  forty  miles,  Sidney  Lanier;  and  just  across 
the  Hancock  line,  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston.  Then  we 

1These  dates  are  certified  by  the  family. 

(9) 


i6  "  "The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

are  prepared  to  note  further  that  this  town  was  the  center 
in  Georgia  about  which  were  assembled  the  various  educa 
tional  institutions.  Within  the  narrow  circle  (the  radius  of 
which  might  be  traversed  on  foot  between  one's  morning 
and  evening  meals)  were  planted  by  the  State  its  university ; 
by  the  Methodists,  Emory  College  for  boys  and  Wesleyan 
for  girls;  by  the  Baptists,  Mercer  University  (Institute); 
by  the  Presbyterians,  Oglethorpe  University.  Finally,  the 
capital  of  the  State,  Milledgeville,  was  not  twenty  miles 
away. 

Thus  favorably  located,  Eatonton  was  a  wealthy,  cultured 
community ;  and  Joe  Harris  was  its  little  poor  boy,  to  whom 
in  many  ways  much  assistance  was  given.  Authentic  ac 
count  of  his  life  begins  when  he  was  living  with  his  mother 
and  grandmother  in  a  little  one-room  house  on  the  edge  of 
town  in  the  early  fifties.  His  mother  pluckily  earned  a  liv 
ing  for  the  three  with  her  needle.  She  was  a  woman  of 
strong  character  and  quick  mind,  but,  conscious  of  her  pov 
erty,  lived  to  herself,  rarely  leaving  the  work  that  confined 
her  indoors,  except  to  attend  church.1 

A  chum  of  boyhood  and  a  friend  throughout  life  gives  the 
following  account : 

Our  family  moved  to  Eatonton  about  1853,  into  a  house 
not  far  from  where  Joe  Harris  was  living  with  his  mother 
and  grandmother.  It  was  very  soon  after  our  arrival  that 
Joe  appeared  one  morning  at  our  woodpile,  where  we  soon 
made  acquaintance.  In  the  days  that  followed  we  became 
fast  friends  for  life.  Joe  didn't  believe  in  work  and  always 
sat  on  the  fence  while  my  brother  and  I  worked  in  the  gar 
den  or  elsewhere.  Some  years  ago,  when  I  read  something 
about  his  "Snap  Bean  Farm,"  I  laughed  and  said  to  myself, 
"Yes,  I  bet  he  ain't  got  two  rows." 

aThese  facts  are  established  by  the  testimony  of  John  S.  Reid  and 
other  aged  citizens  of  Eatonton. 


Biographical  i  1 

Well,  he'd  wait  until  we  got  through  work,  and  then  we'd 
be  off  up  the  branch  hunting  lizards  or  doing  something 
else.  Joe  could  run  like  a  deer;  and  when  we  didn't  want 
the  company  of  my  younger  brother  Jim  [In  the  Savannah 
News  Joe  used  to  refer  to  him  as  Hon.  James  Nathan 
Leonard],  he  would  hold  him  until  I  got  a  good  start,  throw 
his  hat  away,  and  then  run  off  from  him.  He  could  throw, 
too,  like  a  bullet.  I  remember  one  day  he  spied,  hanging 
right  over  my  head,  a  wasp  nest  that  I  didn't  see.  With  one 
rock  he  dropped  that  nest,  full  of  wasps,  square  in  my  face 
as  I  looked  up.  Joe  was  gone  like  a  flash,  but  my  face  was 
swollen  so  that  I  could  hardly  see  for  a  week. 

Mr.  McDade's  livery  stable  was  a  great  place  for  us. 
Fine  horses  were  often  brought  from  Kentucky  and  Ohio, 
and  the  drovers  would  let  us  ride  them  to  the  blacksmith 
shop  or  for  exercise.  Collecting  bird  eggs  was  another 
great  amusement,  and  we  had  many  kinds  that  nobody  but 
ourselves  knew.  But  I  suppose  our  biggest  fun  was  in 
running  rabbits.  Mr.  Harvey  Dennis,  who  lived  across  the 
bottom  and  up  on  the  hill  from  Joe's  house,  had  some  very 
fine  fox  hounds.  We  would  get  out  and  clap  our  hands  and 
yell  until  those  dogs  would  rush  down  and  follow  us.  Pret 
ty  soon  here  would  come  Mr.  Dennis  after  us ;  but  he  would 
just  say:  "Well,  boys,  you've  got  my  dogs  running  rabbits 
again!"  He  had  good  reason  not  to  get  mad,  because  Joe 
used  to  help  him  keep  his  dogs  in  training  by  dragging  a 
fox  hide  around  through  the  fields  and  woods  for  three  or 
four  miles  and  then  sitting  up  in  a  tree  till  the  dogs  fol 
lowed  the  trail  and  treed  him. 

Nearly  every  time  we  hunted  over  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  graveyard  we  would  see  a  rabbit  run  out  through  one 
same  hole.  Not  far  away  lived  a  fortune  teller,  who,  I 
remember,  gave  us  a  chase  one  day.  It  looked  like  the 
very  same  rabbit,  of  course,  that  ran  through  the  graveyard 
each  time,  and  Joe  would  declare  it  was  that  fortune  teller 
turned  into  a  rabbit.  Sometimes  the  rabbit  we  were  after 
would  hop  out  in  sight  of  us  and  appear  to  spit  on  his 
front  paws.  When  Joe  saw  that,  he  would  say :  "He's  gone 
now;  we'll  never  get  him."  One  day  Joe  and  I  came  in 
from  a  long  tramp  very  hungry.  His  mother  fixed  up  some 


12  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

batter  and  told  Joe  he  could  cook  the  cakes.  After  he  had 
turned  them  several  times,  he  wheeled  about  and  ran  the 
blunt  side  of  the  flapper  around  my  neck.  It  burned  so 
that  I  thought  my  throat  was  cut,  and  I  threw  up  my  hands 
in  horror.  His  mother  was  so  amused  that  she  laughed  as 
if  she  couldn't  stop.  There  was  a  blistered  ring  around  my 
neck  for  several  days. 

For  a  year  or  two  we  went  to  a  mixed  school  taught  by 
a  lady  from  the  North,  Miss  Kate  Davidson.  Then  we 
went  to  the  male  academy.  Joe,  Hut  Adams,  a  boy  older 
than  either  of  us,  and  myself  were  boon  friends,  and  we 
rarely  mixed  with  others.  I  remember  how,  coming  to 
gether  from  school  north  along  Washington  Street,  one 
block  from  the  town  square,  Hut  would  drop  out  at  his 
house  first,  then  at  McDade's  stable  Joe  would  turn  out 
Marion  Street  a  hundred  yards  to  his  house,  while  my  house 
was  straight  on  out  Washington  Street  about  two  hundred 
yards  from  Hut's.  School  seemed  to  be  from  sunup  to 
sundown,  with  only  a  dinner  recess.  But  on  our  way  to 
and  from  school,  on  Saturdays,  and  sometimes  on  Sundays, 
we  had  great  times  at  marbles,  tops,  pole-jumping,  stealing 
watermelons1  from  Mr.  Edmund  Reid,  and  robbing  Colonel 
Nicholson's  and  Aunt  Betty  Pike's  orchards.  Hut  was  the 
only  man  in  the  crowd  that  had  a  handkerchief,  with  which 
we  used  to  seine  for  minnows.  He  had  a  gun,  too.  Joe  and 
I  would  tramp  all  over  the  woods  and  fields  with  him,  carry 
ing  the  game,  in  order  to  have  one  shot  apiece.  Hut  got  us 
into  a  lot  of  deviltry,  of  course.  But  Joe  got  off  many  a 
good  joke  on  him. 

I  remember  once  we  were  in  Colonel  Nicholson's  orchard. 
Hut  was  high  up  in  a  tree.  Joe  saw  the  Colonel  at  a  dis 
tance,  walking  with  his  stick,  and  called  up  to  Hut :  "Yon 
der  comes  Colonel  Nicholson  with  his  gun."  Hut  didn't 
stop  to  look,  but  let  loose  and  fell  to  the  ground.  Then 
such  a  scramble  he  made  ahead  of  us  through  the  thick, 
high  weeds!  The  best  one  of  all,  Joe  pulled  off  one  day 
when  we  were  on  our  way  back  to  school  from  dinner. 
Near  the  street  were  the  remains  of  an  old  log  barn,  with 


1See  editorial  page,  Atlanta  Constitution,  August  17,  il 


Biographical  13 

only  the  walls  standing,  some  eight  feet  high,  possibly.  Joe 
had  observed  through  the  cracks  that  hogs  had  for  a  long 
time  made  their  beds  inside.  So,  while  we  were  all  jumping 
with  our  poles,  he  dared  Hut  to  jump  over  one  of  the  walls. 
Hut  leaped  and  tumbled  over.  When  he  had  recovered 
himself  and  come  out,  he  began  madly  scratching  his  legs; 
and  in  a  moment  we  all  saw  his  light-colored  breeches  sim 
ply  peppered  with  giant  hog  fleas.  Hut  made  for  Joe;  but 
Joe  was  quick  enough  to  get  away  home,  where  he  stayed 
until  the  next  day.  Hut  had  to  go  home  and  change  his 
clothes  before  he  went  back  to  school.1 

Leading  from  near  Joe's  house  toward  mine  was  a  big 
gully,  which,  with  its  tributaries,  was  our  favorite  play 
ground.  We  organized  the  "Gully  Minstrels."  Joe  had  a 
fiddle  that  he  couldn't  play,  and  he  made  a  most  ridiculous 
clown.  Aunt  Betsy  Cuthbert,  an  old  free  negro,  lived  just 
above  the  gully  toward  the  stable.  We  thought  there  was 
nobody  like  old  Aunt  Betsy,  especially  because  she  gave  us 
such  good  ginger  cakes  and  pies.8 

Those  good  times  before  the  war  passed  swiftly.  I  shall 
never  forget  when  Joe  left  us  to  begin  work  in  the  printing 
shop  on  Mr.  Turner's  plantation.  When  the  negro  drove  by 
with  his  little  trunk,  I  told  Joe  good-by  as  he  got  in  the 
wagon  and  was  driven  away.8 

The  attention  of  kindly  friends  in  Eatonton  was  drawn 
to  Joe  Harris  when,  having  learned  to  read  at  six  years  of 
age,  he  appeared  at  Sunday  school,  clean  and  neatly  dressed, 
mentally  alert  and  active.4  His  mother  kindled  in  him  the 

^n  the  afternoon  of  September  5,  1916,  Mrs.  Harris  told  the  au 
thor  of  how  Mr.  Leonard  and  Mr.  Harris  recalled  and  laughed  over 
this  incident  during  one  of  Mr.  Leonard's  visits  to  his  old  friend  in 
West  End  (Atlanta). 

2See  editorial  page,  Atlanta  Constitution,  August  17,  1884. 

8This  account  was  given  the  author  by  Mr.  Charles  D.  Leonard  in 
Eatonton  August  3i-September  i,  1916. 

4Mr.  Harris  often  spoke  of  the  Eatonton  friends  who  were  kind 
to  him.  He  is  quoted  as  to  this  in  the  Children's  Visitor  (Nashville, 
Tenn.),  November  23,  1902. 


14  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

intellectual  and  literary  flame  by  reading  aloud  at  least  one 
book,  Goldsmith's  "Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  until  he  held  ex 
tensive  passages  in  memory.1  So  it  came  about,  says  Mrs. 
B.  W.  Hunt,  an  intimate  friend  who  sometimes  studied 
from  the  same  book  with  him,  that,  when  a  little  private 
school  for  girls  and  boys  was  organized  by  a  teacher  from 
Connecticut,  Joe  was  entered  probably  at  the  expense  of 
some  friend  and  kept  in  attendance  for  three  or  four  years, 
until  he  was  old  enough  to  enter  the  private  school  for  boys.3 
Capt.  John  S.  Reid,  now  Ordinary  of  Putnam  County,  says 
that  he  taught  Joe  in  this  boys'  school,  where  he  was  in  at 
tendance  for  about  a  year  and  a  half,  being  charged  nothing 
for  his  tuition.  Captain  Reid  says,  further,  that  he  was  the 
best  composition  writer  in  his  grade.3  According  to  Har 
ris's  own  statement  in  later  life,  he  had  followed  the  reading 
of  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  with  some  attempts  at  writing 
after  the  fashion  of  that  book/  He  had  become  fond  of 
reading,  and  from  the  libraries  of  cultured  friends  came  to 
him  very  stimulative  literature.  Mrs.  Hunt  recalls  his  es 
pecial  interest  in  Scott,  Smollet,  and  Lamb. 

Some  way  might  have  been  found  for  this  promising  boy 
to  continue  his  education  had  not  the  war  come.  However, 
it  was  to  some  purpose  that  the  colleges  were  hard  by.  He 
may  well  have  known  that  during  the  first  six  years  of  his 
life  Emory  College  had  as  its  president  George  F.  Pierce, 
from  just  across  the  Oconee  River,  and  during  six  years  of 
his  later  life  J.  R.  Thomas,  from  the  adjoining  county  of 

1Lippincott's  Monthly  Magazine,  April,  1886,  "An  Accidental  Au 
thor,"  J.  C.  Harris. 

2Mrs.  B.  W.  Hunt  (nee  Louise  Prudden),  of  Eatonton,  Ga.  (Oral 
statement.) 

8Capt.  John  S.  Reid,  of  Eatonton,  Ga.     (Oral  statement.) 

4Ray  Stannard  Baker,  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  Outlook,  Novem 
ber  5,  1904,  Vol.  LXXVIIL,  pages  594-603. 


Biographical  15 

Hancock.  He  may  well  have  heard  how  Mercer  had  been 
founded  by  Rev.  Jesse  Mercer,  the  great  Baptist  preacher 
of  the  preceding  generation,  who  had  been  famous  for  his 
long  and  powerful  ministry  in  adjoining  counties  and  who 
had  organized  and  for  six  years  been  pastor  of  a  Church  in 
Eatonton.  But  the  direct  and  certain  influence  fell  upon 
him  from  Oglethorpe  University,  at  Milledgeville.  For 
when,  in  the  alternating  order  of  the  village  Church  serv 
ices,  came  Presbyterian  Sunday  at  the  little  union  church, 
there  were  often  had  from  Oglethorpe  eloquent  preachers, 
notable  among  whom  were  the  learned  professor  of  science, 
afterwards  president  of  the  University  of  South  Carolina, 
James  Woodrow,  uncle  of  Woodrow  Wilson,  and  the  presi 
dent,  S.  K.  Talmage,  uncle  of  DeWitt  Talmage.  Doubt 
less  Emory  also,  and  possibly  Mercer,  furnished  equally  in 
spiring  preachers  for  the  Eatonton  congregation.  In  "Sister 
Jane,"  written  in  the  first  person  and  partly  autobiograph 
ical,1  Mr.  Harris,  after  drawing  on  his  clear  memory  doubt 
less  as  much  as  imagination  in  describing  a  certain  church, 
preacher,  and  sermon,  records,  in  effect  at  least,  a  very  im 
portant  section  of  his  own  experience  when  he  writes : 

I  found  myself,  therefore,  with  a  good  many  other  men, 
sitting  in  the  pews  usually  reserved  for  the  women.  I  was 
one  pew  behind  that  in  which  Sister  Jane  sat — on  the  very 
seat,  as  I  suddenly  discovered,  that  I  had  sometimes  occu 
pied  when  a  boy,  not  willingly,  but  in  deference  to  the  com 
mands  of  Sister  Jane  [his  mother,  probably],  who,  in  those 
days  long  gone,  made  it  a  part  of  her  duty  to  take  me  pris 
oner  every  Sunday  morning  and  carry  me  to  church,  wheth 
er  or  no.2 

There  is,  of  course,  no  possibility  of  determining  just 
what  good  seeds  were  sown  by  some  of  these  preachers  in 

'So  says  Mrs.  Harris.        ""Sister  Jane." 


1 6  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  receptive  mind  and  heart  of  this  more  or  less  recalcitrant 
young  hearer,  but  we  are  probably  apt  to  underestimate  the 
influence.  Religious  touches  in  "Sister  Jane"  and  in  his 
writings  elsewhere  show  that  he  was  familiar  with  the 
Scriptures,  evidently  from  his  youth.  And  his  vigorous 
mind  must  have  reacted  as,  through  the  persons  as  well  as 
through  the  words  of  these  prominent  men,  secular  interests 
and  ambitions  were  gratuitously  borne  in  upon  him  with 
matters  of  divine  concern.  For  the  thoughtful  student  of 
his  life  there  is  much  left  unsaid  in  this  playful  account  of 
the  hour  at  church  after  Sister  Jane  had  gathered  in  the 
youngster : 

I  used  to  sit  and  wish  for  the  end,  until  the  oblivion  of 
sleep  lifted  me  beyond  the  four  walls  and  out  into  the  free 
dom  of  the  woods  and  fields.  Sometimes  the  preacher, 
anxious  to  impress  some  argument  upon  the  minds  of  his 
hearers,  would  bring  his  fist  down  on  the  closed  Bible  with 
a  bang  that  startled  me  out  of  dreamland. 

Out  of  one  dreamland  he  was  doubtless  swept  by  the  elo 
quence  of  the  orator  into  another,  truly  beyond  the  four 
walls  out  into  the  world  of  men  and  affairs.  For  that  was 
still  the  regnant  day  of  the  orator,  especially  the  preacher, 
when  the  pulpit  reached  farther  than  the  press. 

But  the  press  too  was  moving  upon  his  awakened  mind 
and  was  the  immediate  agency  that  started  him  upon  his 
career.  He  is  recalled  by  Mrs.  Hunt  as  "a  shy  little  re 
cluse,"  who  seemed  to  find  often  a  desirable  retreat  in  the 
post  office,  where  Mrs.  Hunt's  father,  Mr.  Prudden,  was 
the  kindly  postmaster,  who  gave  Joe  access  to  various  news 
papers,  particularly  the  "every  Tuesday"  Recorder  and  Fed 
eral  Union,  from  the  capital  city  of  the  State.  A  vivid  de 
scription  of  the  post  office  is  made  the  starting  point  for  Mr. 
Harris's  narrative,  most  completely  autobiographical,  "On 
the  Plantation."  (In  this  book  Mr,  Harris  presents  himself 


Biographical  17 

under  the  name  of  Joe  Maxwell.)     Much  in  the  same  vein 
as  he  wrote  of  the  long  sermons,  of  these  papers  he  writes : 

What  he  found  in  those  papers  to  interest  him  it  would 
be  hard  to  say.  They  were  full  of  political  essays  that  were 
popular  in  those  days,  and  they  had  long  reports  of  political 
conventions  and  meetings  from  all  parts  of  the  State.  They 
were  papers  for  grown  people,  and  Joe  Maxwell  was  only 
twelve  years  old  and  small  for  his  age.1 

But  there  came  a  paper  on  February  25,  1862,  when  he 
had  reached  the  age  of  fourteen,  in  which  his  quick  eye 
found  down  among  the  advertisements  an  announcement 
certain  to  be  eagerly  seized  upon  by  his  mind,  now  prepared 
for  a  thing  of  this  nature.  Within  nine  miles  of  his  home, 
right  out  on  a  plantation,  was  to  be  established  by  a  planter 
whom  he  knew  (so  read  the  advertisement)  a  weekly  paper 
that  was  to  be  modeled  after  his  beloved  Goldsmith's  paper, 
the  Bee,  Addison's  little  paper,  the  Spectator,  and  Johnson's 
little  paper,  the  Rambler,  and  was  to  be  distributed  from 
this  his  very  own  post  office.  Recalling  his  tremendous 
shock  of  joy  on  reading  this  announcement,  Mr.  Harris 
wrote  in  later  life :  "Joe  read  this  advertisement  over  a  doz 
en  times,  and  it  was  with  a  great  deal  of  impatience  that  he 
waited  for  the  next  Tuesday  to  come."  Tuesday  came  and 
brought  the  first  issue  of  the  promised  paper,  called  The 
Countryman,  to  that  boy,  whose  careful  and  exhaustive  pe 
rusal  of  it  brought  him  to  his  life's  crisis.  Again  it  was 
down  among  the  advertisements  that  he  found  the  matter  of 
moment : 

WANTED— An  active,  intelligent  white 
boy,  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age,  is  wanted 
at  this  office  to  learn  the  printing  business.2 

^'On  the  Old  Plantation."        *The  Countryman,  March  4,  1862. 
2 


1 8  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris     . 

Here  faced  him  his  crucial  opportunity.  Trembling  with 
mingled  timidity  and  delight,  he  arose  to  meet  it.  From  "On 
the  Plantation"  we  take  the  following  reminiscence : 

Joe  borrowed  pen  and  ink  and  paper  from  the  friendly 
postmaster  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the  editor,  saying  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  learn  the  printing  business.  The  letter  was 
no  doubt  an  awkward  one,  but  served  its  purpose,  for  when 
the  editor  of  The  Countryman  came  to  Hillsboro  [Eaton- 
ton]  he  hunted  Joe  up  and  told  him  to  get  ready  to  go  to 
the  plantation.  The  lad,  not  without  some  misgivings,  put 
away  his  tops  and  marbles,  packed  his  little  belongings  in 
an  old-fashioned  trunk,  and  set  forth  on  what  turned  out  to 
be  the  most  important  journey  of  his  life.1 

So  came  Joe  Harris,  with  the  bent  of  his  genius  well 
shaped,  to  the  occasion  of  leaving  his  first  home.  The  ap 
parent  influences  that  had  upbuilt  him  in  that  home  were 
his  mother,  friends,  reading,  school,  atmospheric  inspiration, 
the  pulpit,  and  the  press.  And  the  post  office,  that  medium 
through  which  the  world  outside  came  into  the  village  and 
the  village  went  forth  into  the  world  beyond,  was  a  fitting 
place  for  him  to  spend  his  leisure  hours,  awaiting  the  vision 
of  his  future. 

1Mr.  Harris's  account  of  this  experience  was  given  also  in  an  in 
terview  for  the  Atlanta  News.  (See  Lee's  "Uncle  Remus,"  page  25.) 


II 

EATONTON  had  done  all  it  could  toward  the  making 
of  Harris.     Under  the  favoring  influences  that  this 
little  Middle  Georgia  town  contributed,  he  had  well 
prepared  for  the  decisive  hour  of  his  career,  whose  future 
success  demanded  now  that  he  leave  his  childhood  home  for 
another  more  favorable  to  his  maturing  years.    A  drive  of 
less  than  two  hours  carried  him  to  Turnwold,  the  plantation 
home  of  Mr.  J.  A.  Turner,  editor  of  The  Countryman,    A 
most  extended  journey  could  no  more  surely  have  carried 
him  into  a  new  world. 

Happily  removed  from  the  various  warlike  activities  of 
the  town  to  the  calm  of  the  country,  he  was,  by  the  nature 
of  his  employment,  perhaps  saved  from  later  conscription. 
In  The  Countryman  of  October  4,  1864,  Mr.  Turner  wrote : 

In  our  office  we  have  one  or,  at  most,  two  able-bodied 
men.  Yet  some  liar  told  the  enrolling  officer  of  this  county 
that  every  employee  in  our  office  was  a  large,  strong,  able- 
bodied  man.  An  effort  was  made  to  take  the  lame  and  the 
halt  [Mr.  Turner]  and  even  an  infant  (in  the  eye  of  the 
law)  [probably  a  boy  employed  later  than  Harris]  out  of 
our  office  and  put  them  into  military  service.  We  have  in 
The  Countryman  office  only  one,  or  at  most  two  [possibly 
includes  Harris],  able  to  do  military  service. 

Then  follows  an  assertion  of  the  need  of  men  to  keep  up  the 
publication  of  newspapers.  On  October  15, 1864  (  ?),  a  young 
friend  of  Harris's,  W.  F.  Williams,  wrote  him  from  Colum 
bus,  Georgia,  a  most  interesting  letter  about  dodging  con 
script  officers.  His  papers  (he,  too,  was  a  printer)  had  not 
been  properly  made  out  by  the  "wooden-headed  enrolling 
officer"  in  Eatonton.  "You  can  tell  Smith,"  he  concludes, 

(19) 


2O  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"if  you  should  see  him,  he  is  a  jackass."  Conscription  or 
any  active  concern  with  the  affairs  of  the  war  would  possi 
bly  have  precluded  such  literary  work  as  Harris  later  gave 
to  our  country  and  to  the  world.  Here,  then,  is  our  first 
debt  to  the  Turnwold  home. 

During  these  four  years,  when  practically  every  man  and 
youth  in  the  South  was  torn  away  alike  from  trade  and 
study,  how  must  Providence  have  taken  in  care  Joe  Harris, 
binding  him  in  such  a  fortunate  apprenticeship  to  the  print 
er's  trade  as  would  possibly  surpass  even  the  college,  whose 
doors  were  then  closed,  in  preparing  an  author  for  the  fu 
ture  !  With  Mr.  Turner  as  the  faculty,  with  his  library  of  a 
thousand  volumes,  with  the  printing  office  as  the  literary 
laboratory,  and  with  the  whole  plantation  as  the  campus,  he 
was,  indeed,  to  pass  through  a  most  wonderful  four-year 
curriculum,  coming  thence  into  the  world  with  his  talents 
developed  and  his  career  prepared  for.  Here  we  discover 
the  supreme  formative  influences  upon  the  life  of  Joel 
Chandler  Harris.  An  adequate  study  of  these  influences 
will  bring  us  to  thoroughly  established  conclusions  as  to  the 
preparation  of  Harris  for  his  great  life  work. 

Mr.  Joseph  Addison  Turner  was  a  highly  cultured  law 
yer-planter  of  the  old  school.  He  was  born  in  Putnam 
County,  Georgia,  September  23,  1826.  His  formal  educa 
tion  was  limited  to  a  brief  period  in  the  local  Phcenix  Acad 
emy  and  a  fall  term  (1845)  at  Emory  College,  Oxford, 
Georgia.  But  his  father,  William  Turner,  who  had  begun 
teaching  him  while  with  lameness  from  necrosis  the  boy 
was  yet  confined  to  his  bed,  must  have  led  him  judiciously 
along  the  path  of  learning  to  where  he  might  travel  alone. 
That  he  went  forward  until  he  might  soon  be  called  a  liber 
ally  educated  man  is  seen  by  a  glance  at  his  later  intellectual 
accomplishments.  Upon  his  return  from  Emory  College  he 
was  put  in  charge  of  Phoenix  Academy  and  gave  full  satis- 


Biographical  21 

faction  during  the  year  of  his  teaching.  In  1847  ne  to°k 
up  in  Eatonton  the  reading  of  law  under  a  relation,  Col. 
Junius  Wingfield,  and  was  after  a  few  months  admitted  to 
the  bar.  Beginning  to  write  for  publication  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  he  was  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  exceedingly 
active  in  literary  production.  He  had  published  volumes  of 
poetry  and  prose  and  undertaken  the  publication  of  more  than 
one  magazine  previous  to  establishing  The  Countryman.1 

The  personality  and  character  of  this  man  may  well  be 
noted  before  approaching  directly  his  influence  as  a  man  of 
letters  upon  Harris,  because  the  young  apprentice  was  taken 
into  Mr.  Turner's  home  as  a  member  of  the  family.  Mr. 
Turner  was  to  him  a  congenial  spirit,  and  in  his  later  life 
there  is  reflected  at  more  than  one  point  the  moral  influence 
that  then  fell  upon  him.  The  brusque  manner  of  the  editor 
must  appear  very  vividly  in  a  few  words  from  his  prospec 
tus  in  The  Countryman  of  September  15,  1863: 

Now,  if  you  like  my  terms  .  .  . ;  if  not,  keep  away,  and 
be  sure  not  to  get  into  any  palaver  or  argument  with  me 
about  my  terms,  nor  to  think  you  are  doing  me  a  favor,  for 
the  favor  is  the  other  way.  I  don't  do  business  of  any  kind 
but  one  way,  and  every  one  must  conform  to  my  rules.2 

At  the  same  time  he  was  full  of  humor.  And  when  we 
come  to  consider  his  literary  influence  upon  Harris,  we  shall 
be  reminded  of  this  assertion  about  himself: 

Both  in  my  writings  and  conversations  I  am  compelled  by 
nature  to  be  an  inveterate  joker  and  humorist  and  indulge 
my  humor,  repartee,  or  joke  at  the  risk  of  offending  my  best 
friend.  I  cannot  possibly  help  it.  But  there  is  no  sting  nor 
malice  in  my  jokes;  and  if  they  offend,  I  am  sure  to  ask 
forgiveness.3 

'Autobiographical  sketch  by  Mr.  Turner  in  The  Countryman, 
February,  1866. 

"The  Countryman,  September  15, 1863.       'Autobiographical  sketch. 


22  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

To  many  who  merely  met  Mr.  Harris  after  he  became 
famous,  especially  to  those  misguided  individuals,  as  he 
called  them,  who  sought  autographs,  and  to  those  who  ex 
ercised  too  little  discretion  and  tact  in  seeking  "an  inter 
view,"  he  certainly  appeared  quite  as  brusque  as  Mr.  Tur 
ner;  yet  every  one  knew  that  no  malice  had  place  in  his 
heart.  And  he  was  always  fond  of  a  joke.  Joe  Turner  and 
Joe  Harris  must  have  been  often  as  boys  together  in  their 
fun,  and  doubtless  the  younger  boy  won  forever  the  heart 
of  the  older  one  when  in  the  old  printing  office  he  perpe 
trated  a  splendid  piece  of  mischief  upon  a  tramp  printer. 
It  was  on  publication  day  that  the  wandering  printer  came 
by.  In  return  for  his  dinner  he  agreed  to  help  "run  off"  the 
paper.  He  was  unwilling  to  go  to  the  house.  So  Harris 
brought  his  dinner  to  him  and  told  him  that  some  ladies 
were  later  coming  out  to  look  through  the  office.  It  was  in 
August,  and  the  tramp  had  discarded  his  shirt  in  order  to 
work  with  more  comfort  at  the  hand  press.  Suddenly  Joe 
Harris  called,  "Here  they  come!"  and  rushed  to  the  door, 
leaving  the  other  to  clamber  out  of  a  rear  window  upon  an 
adjoining  tin-covered  shed.  Joe  at  once  struck  up  a  conver 
sation,  saying:  "I  shall  first  show  you  the  press — how  you 
ink  the  forms,  pull  down  the  lever,  etc."  Slowly  he  pro 
ceeded  to  the  type  cases  and  there  began  a  detailed  descrip 
tion  of  typesetting.  The  tramp,  after  sweltering  for  some 
time  under  the  fierce  sun's  rays,  with  his  naked  body  fairly 
baking  against  the  tin  roof,  ventured  to  a  crack  in  the  wall 
and  discovered  that  Joe's  guests  were  all  imaginary.1 

Mr..  Julian  Harris  tells  of  how,  while  he  was  once  riding 
on  an  Atlanta  street  car  with  his  father,  Mr.  Harris  nudged 
him  and,  with  that  famous  twinkle  in  his  eye,  directed  his 
attention  across  the  aisle  to  a  nodding  neighbor  whose  meal, 

1Account  given  by  Mr.  J.  T.  Manry.     (See  page  85.) 


Biographical  23 

in  a  sack  pressed  between  his  knees,  was  gradually  slipping 
out  through  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  sack.  With  the 
giving  away  of  the  sack  the  sleepy  fellow  was  aroused  and 
thought  he  detected  the  fun  lurking  in  Mr.  Harris's  face. 
"Harris,  you  scamp,"  said  he,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 
"I  thought  possibly  you  had  a  purpose  in  doing  that,"  re 
plied  Harris.1 

These  incidents  reveal  the  real  Harris,  although  only  the 
fortunate  few  knew  him  so.  Sometimes  he  would  come 
into  the  editorial  offices  of  the  Constitution,  says  Frank 
Stanton,  and,  finding  too  serious  and  heavy  an  air  upon  his 
associates,  jump  up,  crack  his  heels  together,  and  do  the 
old-fashioned  cornfield  negro  shuffle  so  perfectly  that  good 
humor  prevailed  for  the  rest  of  the  week.2 

We  think  at  once  of  Mr.  Harris's  unwillingness  to  make 
any  claims  for  the  literary  value  of  his  work  when  we  read 
from  Mr.  Turner  the  following : 

It  is  entirely  foreign  to  the  nature  of  a  Southern  gentle 
man  to  advertise  himself  or  to  drum  for  subscribers.  This 
is  one  reason  why  so  few  Southern  literary  or  miscellaneous 
journals  succeed.  But  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  the 
Southern  people  should  have  these  kinds  of  journals,  and 
to  some  extent  these  must  use  the  means  to  success.  I  have 
got  my  consent  to  advertise;  but  to  drum,  never!  I  could 
not  under  any  circumstances  ask  men  to  subscribe  for  my 
paper.  It  is  not  genteel  to  do  so.8 

Mr.  Turner  was  not  a  member  of  any  Church,  though  he 
was  a  Sunday  school  teacher  and  certainly  a  religious  man.4 
"The  Countryman"  he  declared  (Vol.  II.,  No.  2),  "is  what 
self-styled  'orthodoxy'  calls  'heterodoxy' — stands  for  liber- 

10ral  account  by  Mr.  Julian  Harris. 

2Oral  statement  of  Frank  L.  Stanton,  of  the  Atlanta  Constitution. 

*The  Countryman,  Vol.  II.,  No.  I. 

'The  Countryman,  July  12,  1862. 


24  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

al  and  enlightened  religion,  as  opposed  to  sectarian  creed- 
ism."  (September  15,  1863.)  Writing  of  an  incident  when 
Stonewall  Jackson,  after  a  sermon,  administered  the  sac 
rament  to  members  of  all  denominations,  he  wished  that 
Jackson  had  invited  everybody  instead  of  Church  members 
only,  adding:  "I  would  have  liked  myself,  even  I,  who  am 
no  Church  member  and  never  expect  to  be  one — I  would 
have  liked  to  have  the  privilege  granted  me  of  communing 
with  the  Christians/'  (October  20,  1862.)  But  he  also 
wrote:  "The  Church  as  founded  by  our  Saviour  is  a  good 
and  sufficient  society  of  itself  for  the  amelioration  and  mor 
al  government  of  mankind.  The  blood  of  Christ  saves 
souls."  (July  12,  1862.)  "The  Church  and  Christianity 
must  and  will  survive  the  wreck  of  bigotry  and  intolerance. 
We  know  not  what  to  do  without  the  Church  and  Chris 
tianity."  (April  7,  1863.)  Of  the  Catholic  Church  he 
wrote  that  he  had  been  trained  to  oppose  it,  but  had  over 
come  all  prejudice.  (September  13,  1864.)  On  one  occa 
sion  he  served  as  preacher,  publishing  his  sermon  in  The 
Countryman,  March  13,  1866: 

PEACE 
THE  ORIGIN  AND  END  OF  CHRISTIANITY — A  SERMON 

BY  J.  A.  TURNER 

Preached  at  an  examination  at  Union  Academy,  Putnam 
County,  Georgia,  July  27,  1865.  "Glory  to  God  in  the  high 
est,  and  on  earth  peace,  good  will  to  men."  (Luke  ii.  14.) 

That  Harris  was  indelibly  impressed  by  the  religious  doc 
trines  and  eccentricities  of  Mr.  Turner  cannot  be  doubted. 
Although  he  came  from  a  Methodist  home  and,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  carried  regularly  to  Sunday  school  and  preaching 
as  long  as  he  was  in  Eatonton,  yet,  like  Mr.  Turner,  he  al 
lied  himself  with  no  Church  until  on  his  deathbed,  shortly 


Biographical  25 

before  the  end,  he  was  received  into  the  Catholic  Church, 
the  Church  of  his  wife.1  There  is  abundant  evidence,  how 
ever,  that  he  was  a  very  devout  man.  Rev.  J.  W.  Lee, 
preaching  in  Trinity  Methodist  Church  (Atlanta)  a  memo 
rial  sermon  after  Mr.  Harris's  death,  said:  "He  was  a 
devoted  follower  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  He  told  me 
not  long  ago  that  all  the  agnostics  and  materialists  in  crea 
tion  could  never  shake  his  faith."  Mr.  Harris  once  said: 
"The  most  important  conviction  of  my  life  was  when  I 
came  fully  to  realize  that  a  personal  Providence  watched 
over  me  from  day  to  day.  With  me  it  is  no  longer  a  belief, 
but  a  fact.  I  have  been  on  the  brink  of  ruin  many  times, 
and  God  has  always  rescued  me."2 

In  politics  Mr.  Turner  was  prominent.  He  was  elected 
to  the  State  Senate  on  an  independent  ticket.  Of  The  Coun 
tryman  he  declared  that  it  was  not  a  party  paper,  but  that 
its  purpose  in  politics  would  be  to  "oppose  radicalism  and 
favor  conservatism."3  So  far  as  Harris  was  concerned,  Mr. 
Turner's  attitude  toward  the  war  is  the  matter  of  chief  con 
cern,  and  we  find  that  his  influence  must  have  been  such  as 
to  contribute  to  the  peace-breathing  atmosphere  of  our  post- 
bellum  author.  It  is  good  to  have  from  him  the  following 
words : 

In  1860,  upon  resuming  my  seat  in  the  Senate,  I  found 
myself  without  a  party  with  which  to  act ;  and  consequently, 
so  far  as  the  great  question  of  secession  was  concerned,  I 
bore  no  prominent  part.  One  party  was,  I  thought,  in  favor 
of  secession  in  any  event,  and  the  other  I  considered  in 
favor  of  unconditional  submission.  Hence  I  could  decide 


aOral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 

'Boston  Globe,  November  3,  1907.    James  B.  Morrow. 
8See  The  Countryman,  April  7,  1863,  December  22,  1862,  and  Vol. 
II.,  Nos.  2  and  5. 


26  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

with  neither.  I  looked  upon  both  parties  as  infatuated — one 
driven  by  madness  upon  the  trail  of  blood  and  the  other  im 
becile  with  fear  and  insane  with  a  blind  attachment  to  a 
Union  already  in  spirit  gone.  I  am  not  a  man  for  war,  but 
emphatically  a  peace  man.  I  wrote  an  article  for  the  Fed 
eral  Union  urging  the  appointment  of  Northern  and  South 
ern  commissioners  to  arrange  for  a  peaceable  dissolution  of 
the  Union.  I  also  wrote  a  resolution  to  the  same  effect, 
which  was  introduced  into  the  Senate  by  Hon.  H.  C.  Fulton, 
of  Columbia  County.1 

During  the  war  the  Turner  plantation  did  not  remain 
untouched.  The  Countryman  published  correspondence 
from  the  battle  front.  Again  and  again  were  recorded,  in 
the  list  of  slain,  names  of  friends  who  had  marched  away 
from  Putnam;  and  often  upon  the  editor  and  his  printers 
fell  the  duty  of  carrying  in  person  the  sad  news  to  the  be 
reaved  families  and  of  ministering  as  they  were  able  to 
those  left  in  need.  And  the  editor  suffered  in  person  and 
property  from  the  war.  Upon  charge  of  publishing  disloyal 
articles,  he  was  on  one  occasion  somewhat  roughly  seized 
and  held  for  a  time  under  military  arrest  by  General  Wilson 
in  Macon,  Georgia.  The  paper  was  then  placed  under  such 
restrictions  that  no  publication  was  undertaken  between 
June  27,  1865,  and  January  30,  1866.  The  following  items 
appear  in  The  Countryman  of  December  6,  1864: 

Sun.,  20th  Nov. — Sent  nine  [mules  and  negroes]  to 
the  swamp,  but  stayed  at  home  myself.  About  one  or  two 
o'clock  four  or  five  Yankees  came,  professing  they  would 
behave  as  gentlemen.  These  gentlemen,  however,  stole  my 
gold  watch  and  silver  spoons.  .  .  .  Four  more  [Yankees], 
.  .  .  two  Dutchmen.  These  raided  the  hat  factory. 

A  mob  of  savage  Yankees  and  Europeans,  surrounding 
us  with  the  pistol  and  the  torch,  .  .  .  our  children  fright 
ened  and  weeping  about  us. 

Autobiographical  sketch. 


Biographical  27 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Mr.  Turner  himself  sometimes 
took  to  the  swamp.  But  he  saw  the  humor  of  it,  being  able 
to  refresh  his  readers  with  such  accounts  as  the  following, 
in  The  Countryman,  August  2,  1864 : 

THE  RAIDERS  AT  HAND 

One  o'clock  P.M.,  Tuesday,  August  2. — After  writing  the 
above  [an  account  of  the  presence  of  Yankees  in  the  neigh 
borhood],  it  seemed  to  be  made  evident  that  we  must  be 
come  non  comeatibus  in  swampo  (whither  we  retired)  or 
become  ourselves  prisoners.  The  female  portion  of  our 
family  decided  the  former  was  better  for  us,  and  we  acted 
upon  this  suggestion.  To-day  Wheeler's  cavalry  possessed 
attraction  enough  to  draw  us  from  our  covert,  and  so  we 
have  emerged  to  finish  our  notes  in  our  sanctum. 

In  his  "Autobiography"  he  reviews  his  experiences  of 
those  days  thus : 

After  the  commencement  of  the  war  I  did  all  I  could  to 
feed  and  clothe  the  soldiers  and  the  soldiers'  families.  I 
organized  a  hat  factory  on  my  plantation  during  the  war 
and  never  turned  off  any  one,  especially  a  soldier,  hatless. 
If  the  applicant  said  he  was  unable  to  purchase  a  hat,  then 
I  gave  him  one.  And  now  I  hold  an  account  of  several 
thousand  dollars  against  the  deceased  Confederacy  for  hats 
purchased  by  it  for  its  soldiers.  Not  only  have  I  lost  heavily 
in  this  way,  but  lost  very  heavily  by  Sherman's  invasion. 
And  yet  at  the  same  time  I  was  spending  not  only  my  in 
come,  but  my  capital  and  my  time  and  energies,  to  serve, 
people  maddened  by  the  insane  cry  of  speculation  and  ex 
tortion  raised  by  demagogues  .  .  .  denounced  me  as  a 
"speculator  and  extortioner."  I,  however,  tried  to  make  a 
joke  of  my  losses,  as  my  nature  requires  me  to  do  of  almost 
everything.  I  gave  a  humorous  account  in  my  paper  of  the 
Yankee  visit  to  my  house ;  and  I  published  in  The  Country 
man  a  humorous  letter  to  General  Sherman,  touching  the 
destruction  of  my  property,  which  was  copied  into  nearly 
every  paper  throughout  the  land  and  declared  by  the  Augus 
ta  Constitutionalist  to  be  unsurpassed  for  rollicking  humor. 


28  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Eloquent  are  the  changing  mottoes  adopted  by  the  editor 
for  his  paper  as  the  war  progressed  to  its  conclusion.  First : 
"Brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit."  After  September  22,  1863: 
"Independent  in  Everything,  Neutral  in  Nothing."  After 
June  6,  1865 :  "Independent  in  Nothing,  Neutral  in  Every 
thing."  After  June  30,  1866:  "Devoted  to  the  Editor's 
Opinions."  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  was  able  to  make  a 
clear  declaration  of  peace  in  The  Countryman,  June  6,  1865  : 
"Reunion — Henceforth  we  desire  to  know  no  North,  no 
South,  no  East,  no  West,  but  one  common  country." 

Joe  Harris,  situated  as  he  was  at  this  time,  was  bound  to 
see  the  various  aspects  of  affairs  largely  through  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Turner.  The  sentiments  of  The  Countryman  are  re 
flected  wherever  is  given  in  "On  the  Plantation"  any  ac 
count  of  the  war.  Apropos  of  one  of  the  items  quoted 
above  is  to  be  read  from  this  book  of  Mr.  Harris's  the  fol 
lowing  : 

Joe  saw  a  good  deal  of  these  foragers;  and  he  found 
them  all,  with  one  exception,  to  be  good-humored.  The 
exception  was  a  German,  .  .  .  [who]  came  to  the  store 
room  where  the  hats  were  kept,  wanted  to  take  off  as  many 
as  his  horse  could  carry,  and  .  .  .  became  angry  when 
Joe  protested.  He  grew  so  angry,  in  fact,  that  he  would 
have  fired  the  building — and  was  in  the  act — when  an  officer 
ran  in  and  gave  him  a  tremendous  paddling  with  the  flat  of 
his  sword.  It  was  an  exhibition  as  funny  as  a  scene  in  a 
circus  .* 

In  the  same  chapter  (page  228)  he  recalls  ludicrously  his 
predicament  when,  having  wandered  one  day  along  the  road 
to  Milledgeville,  and  having  climbed  upon  a  rail  fence  to 
rest,  there  came  by,  all  unexpectedly,  the  Twentieth  Army 
Corps  of  Federals,  commanded  by  General  Slocum.  He 
writes : 

1<{On  the  Plantation,"  page  226. 


Biographical  29 

They  splashed  through  the  mud,  cracking  their  jokes  and 
singing  snatches  of  songs.  Joe  Maxwell  [Harris] ,  sitting  on 
the  fence,  was  the  subject  of  many  a  jest  as  the  good- 
humored  men  marched  by : 

"Hello,  Johnny !    Where's  your  parasol  ?" 

"Jump  down,  Johnny,  and  let  me  kiss  you  good-by !" 

"Johnny,  if  you  are  tired,  get  up  behind  and  ride !" 

"Where's  the  rest  of  your  regiment,  Johnny?" 
"If  there  was  another  one  of  'em  a-setting  on  the  fence 
on  t'other  side,  I'd  say  we  was  surrounded." 

Here  was  Sherman's  march  through  Georgia  as  seen  by 
Joel  Chandler  Harris,  a  boy  on  the  plantation.  There  fol 
lowed  the  passing  of  the  Yankees  an  incident  whose  pathos 
was  so  powerful  as  almost  alone  to  have  determined  the 
spirit  of  Harris's  later  writing  about  the  negro.  His  account 
of  it  is  given  its  rightful  place  near  the  close  of  his  book: 

This  incident  has  had  many  adaptations.  It  occurred  just 
as  it  is  given  here,  and  was  published  afterwards  in  The 
Countryman.  In  the  corner  of  the  fence,  not  far  from  the 
road,  Joe  found  an  old  negro  woman  shivering  and  moaning. 
Near  her  lay  an  old  negro  man,  his  shoulders  covered  with 
an  old  ragged  shawl. 

"Who  is  that  lying  there?"  asked  Joe. 
"It  my  ole  man,  suh." 
"What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 
"He  dead,  suh ;  but,  bless  God,  he  died  free !" 
It  was  a  pitiful  sight  and  a  pitiful  ending  of  the  old  cou 
ple's  dream  of  freedom.  „  Harbert  and  the  other  negroes 
buried  the  old  man,  and  the  old  woman  was  made  comfort 
able  in  one  of  the  empty  cabins.    She  never  ceased  to  bless 
"little  marster,"  as  she  called  Joe,  giving  him  the  credit  for 
all  that  was  done  for  her.     Old  as  she  was,  she  and  her 
husband  had  followed  the  army  for  many  a  weary  mile  on 
the  road  to  freedom.     The  old  man  found  it  in  the  fence 
corner,  and  a  few  weeks  later  the  old  woman  found  it  in  the 
humble  cabin. 


30  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

We  need  extend  our  view  of  Mr.  Turner's  politics  and 
the  effects  of  the  war  experiences  upon  him  only  to  note  his 
attitude  toward  the  freed  negro.  He  promptly  announced 
to  his  one  hundred  slaves  that  the  war  had  freed  them  from 
any  bondage  to  him  and  that  henceforth  they  were  their 
own  masters.  But  he  said  also  to  them  that  they  need  not 
wander  homeless  away,  but  that  the  old  doors  were  open 
still,  and  that  they  might,  if  they  wished,  remain  in  their 
homes  with  him.  No  slave  of  Mr.  Turner's  was  suffered 
to  experience  that  exiledom  and  want  which  seemed  a  likely 
lot  for  the  negroes  upon  their  emancipation.  And  so  Har 
ris,  remaining  on  the  plantation  until  The  Countryman 
ceased  to  be  published,  saw  many  of  the  old  slaves  taken 
under  the  protection  and  care  of  their  former  master,  who 
also  gave  employment  to  others  who  had  fled  from  less  fa 
vorable  conditions.  One  of  the  last  editorials  that  he  set  in 
type  for  Mr.  Turner,  February  13,  1866,  might  well  have 
been  written  by  Henry  Grady  when  the  lingering  clouds  of 
war  were  finally  disappearing  many  years  later.  With  all  of 
Grady's  longing  for  peace  and  willingness  to  do  his  share, 
Mr.  Turner  wrote : 

If  the  negro  is  forced  upon  us  as  a  citizen,  we  go  for  edu 
cating  him,  inducing  him  to  accumulate  property  and  to  do 
other  things  which  make  a  good  citizen.  In  his  attempts  at 
elevating  himself  he  should  receive  all  the  aid  and  encour 
agement  in  the  power  of  our  people  to  give  him.1 

Thus,  while  Mr.  Turner  was  a  most  ardent  Southerner 
and  had  his  hatred  of  the  Yankees,  the  prevailing  influence 
that  he  exerted  upon  Harris  from  1862  to  1866  was  season 
ing  the  young  man's  mind  and  heart  with  sympathy  for  the 
negro  and  a  longing  for  peace  for  the  nation. 

Here  we  are  led  from  our  consideration  of  the  teacher — 

*The  Countryman,  February  13,  1866. 


Biographical  3 1 

the  faculty,  as  we  have  called  Mr.  Turner  in  characterizing 
Mr.  Harris's  four-year  educational  course  at  Turnwold — 
to  a  consideration  of  the  campus,  as  we  have  called  the  plan 
tation.  We  have  only  to  note  those  things  that  have  a  dis 
tinct  bearing  upon  Harris's  later  work,  and  they  stand  out  so 
clearly  that  we  can  present  them  briefly. 

Everything  worth  while  was  made  possible  through  that 
relationship  of  Mr.  Turner  with  his  slaves,  the  character  of 
which  has  already  been  shown.  The  interracial  atmosphere 
of  the  plantation  determined  the  character  of  Harris's  great 
literary  work.  Had  such  conditions  existed  here  as  Mrs. 
Stowe  found  where  she  chanced  to  be  for  a  short  time,  the 
world  to-day  would  not  know  Uncle  Remus.  Had  Mr.  Tur 
ner  as  a  heartless  master  allowed  some  overseer,  such  as 
was  occasionally  found  on  the  plantations,  to  stir  his  ne 
groes  with  fear  and  anger,  there  might  have  grown  prejudice 
in  the  mind  of  young  Harris,  unfitting  him  for  that  calm 
representation  of  normal  plantation  life  in  the  South  which, 
along  with  the  writings  of  Page  and  others,  has  well-nigh 
corrected  the  false  impression  that  had  previously  been  so 
widely  made  in  other  sections  of  the  country.  Had  lack  of 
confidence  in  their  master  caused  to  creep  into  the  minds  of 
the  negroes  the  faintest  suspicions,  Joe  Harris  would  never 
have  been  favored  with  the  recital  of  those  wonderful  folk 
tales  reserved  by  the  Africans  for  the  children  whom  they 
fancied.  When  during  the  war  rumors  of  a  general  slave 
uprising  spread  terror  through  scores  of  plantations,  there 
was  no  uneasiness  at  Turnwold.  Mr.  Turner  knew  his 
slaves  too  well  and  felt  too  steadily  their  confidence  in  him 
for  any  such  rumor  to  disturb  him.  Masters  and  overseers 
on  other  plantations,  in  dread  of  massacre,  might  organize  a 
patrol  system  and  hold  the  negroes  under  terror,  but  no 
"patter-rollers"  dared  trespass  upon  the  peaceful  slave  quar- 


32  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ters  at  Turnwold.1  Fortunately  enough,  "Marster"  so  treat 
ed  his  negroes  that  "Little  Marster"  came  into  an  inherit 
ance  of  affection  that  he  knew  how  to  appreciate  and  quickly 
learned  how  to  nourish,  until  every  black  on  the  plantation 
was  bound  in  his  friendship,  and  his  acquaintance  was  ex 
tended  among  those  on  neighboring  plantations.2 

There  were  two  things  in  particular  that  caused  Joe  Har 
ris  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of  the  negroes.  It  will  be  re 
called  that  in  Eatonton  he  was  a  "shy  little  recluse."  Such 
was  his  character  everywhere  else,  but  the  good  old  slaves 
made  him  forget  all  his  shyness.  He  felt  relieved  of  all 
restraint  when  in  their  company.  He  has  told  us  how  pain 
fully  sensitive  he  was  from  early  boyhood;  but  who  can 
conceive  of  an  old  slave's  injuring  any  one's  feelings?  As 
he  grew  older  his  occasional  visits  to  his  mother  in  Eatonton 
must  have  developed  his  consciousness  of  her  loneliness  and 
his  humble  fortune,  and  doubtless  he  went  downcast  and 
melancholy  many  times  to  some  old  soothing  "mammy"  who 
knew  just  how  to  meet  the  occasion.  He  could  not  always 
talk  out  of  his  heart  to  the  other  printers  and  to  Mr.  Tur 
ner  ;  but  when  hunting  with  a  simple-minded  black  compan 
ion,  he  was  assured  of  a  sympathetic  listener  to  whatever  he 
might  say,  and  so  could  unburden  his  soul  or  set  his  fancy 
free.  For  this  reason,  then,  he  sought  the  companionship  of 
well-chosen  friends  among  the  negroes.  Again,  there  were 
the  Turner  children,  boys  and  girls  of  eight  and  ten  and 
twelve.  Children,  no  less  than  friendly  old  slaves,  brought 
relief  and  happiness  to  Joe  Harris.  Many  a  glad  hour,  the 
happiest  of  his  life  he  would  undoubtedly  have  declared, 
must  he  have  spent  rollicking  with  these  little  chums.  "I 

1Compare  the  Abercrombie  plantation  in  "Aaron  in  the  Wild 
Woods,"  especially  page  213. 

2 Note  the  story  of  Mink  in  "On  the  Plantation,"  Aaron  in  "Aaron 
in  the  Wild  Woods,"  etc. 


Biographical  33 

was  fond  of  children,"  he  says,  "but  not  in  the  usual  way, 
which  means  a  hug,  a  kiss,  and  a  word  in  passing.  I  get 
down  to  their  level — think  with  them  and  play  with  them."1 
Mrs.  Harris  says  he  would  not  tell  stories  to  his  children, 
because  that  would  lift  him  above  them,  but  rather  would 
sometimes  roll  on  the  floor  with  them.2  At  Turnwold  began 
this  love  of  children,  which  was  the  incentive  to  much  of 
his  work  as  an  author.  These  children  were  much  of  the 
time  in  the  affectionate  care  of  devoted  slaves,  to  whom  on 
this  account  Joe  was  drawn  more  closely.  In  Chapter  VIII. 
of  "On  the  Plantation"  we  have  Mr.  Harris's  own  account, 
as  follows : 

Harbert's  house  on  the  Turner  place  was  not  far  from  the 
kitchen,  and  the  kitchen  itself  was  only  a  few  feet  removed 
from  the  big  house — in  fact,  there  was  a  covered  passage 
way  between  them.  From  the  back  steps  of  the  kitchen  two 
pieces  of  hewn  timber,  half  buried  in  the  soil,  led  to  Har 
bert's  steps,  thus  forming,  as  the  negro  called  it,  a  wet- 
weather  path,  over  which  Mr.  Turner's  children  could  run 
when  the  rest  of  the  yard -had  been  made  muddy  by  the  fall 
and  winter  rains.  Harbert  used  to  sit  at  night  and  amuse 
the  children  with  his  reminiscences  and  his  stories.  The 
children  might  tire  of  their  toys,  their  ponies,  and  every 
thing  else ;  but  they  could  always  find  something  to  interest 
them  in  Harbert's  house.  There  were  few  nights,  especially 
during  the  winter,  that  did  not  find  them  seated  by  the  ne 
gro's  white  hearthstone.  Frequently  Joe  Maxwell  [Harris] 
would  go  there  and  sit  with  them,  especially  when  he  was 
feeling  lonely  and  homesick. 

Thus  we  understand  how  Mr.  Harris  could  say  in  his 
introduction  to  "Nights  with  Uncle  Remus"  that  he  had 
been  familiar  with  the  tales  from  his  boyhood.  The  negro 
songs,  too,  became  familiar  to  him  at  this  time.  Mr.  Turner 

1Boston  Globe,  November  3,  1907.    James  B.  Morrow. 
*Oral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 
3 


34  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

tells  how  his  youngest  son,  Joe  Syd,  had  learned  songs  from 
the  negroes.  He  specifies  one,  called  "Have  My  Way."1  Of 
"Uncle  Remus,"  who,  Mr.  Harris  declared,2  was  a  kind  of 
"human  syndicate"  of  several  old  negroes  he  had  known, 
Mr.  Ivy  Lee  writes : 

The  original  was  in  many  respects  "Ole  Uncle"  George 
Terrell,  a  negro  owned  before  the  war  by  Mr.  J.  A.  Turner. 
In  the  ancient  days  "Uncle"  George  Terrell  owned  an  old- 
fashioned  Dutch  oven.  On  this  he  made  most  wonderful 
ginger  cakes  every  Saturday.  He  would  sell  these  cakes 
and  persimmon  beer,  also  of  his  own  brew,  to  children  of 
planters  for  miles  around.  He  was  accustomed  to  cook  his 
own  supper  on  this  old  oven  every  evening.  And  it  was  at 
twilight,  by  the  light  of  the  kitchen  fire,  that  he  told  his 
quaint  stories  to  the  Turner  children  and  at  the  same  time 
to  Joel  C.  Harris.  Men  now,  who  were  boys  then,  still  re 
late  their  joy  at  listening  to  the  story  of  "The  Wonderful 
Tar  Baby"  as  they  sat  in  front  of  that  old  cabin  munching 
ginger  cakes  while  "Uncle"  George  Terrell  was  cooking 
supper  on  his  Dutch  oven.3 

The  negroes,  the  children,  and  the  animals  made  the  three 
angles  of  the  triangle  into  the  magic  of  which  Harris  entered 
in  1862,  to  come  forth  himself  the  master  magician  in  1880. 
His  close  and  constant  contact  with  domestic  and  wild  ani 
mals  was  a  part  of  the  normal  life  on  the  plantation.  What 
boy  from  the  town  would  not  have  found  an  immediate  in 
terest  in  horses  called  Butterfly,  Tadpole,  Bullfrog,  and 
dogs  called  Hell  Cat,  Biscuit,  and  Devil  ?  These  names,  in 
deed,  are  a  commentary  on  the  more  than  mere  property 
interest  of  Mr.  Turner  himself  in  his  domestic  animals.  A 

1The  Countryman,  April  4,  1865. 

2Boston  Globe,  November  3,  1907.    James  B.  Morrow. 

3"Uncle  Remus,"  Ivy  Lee.  The  facts  as  quoted  are  confirmed  by 
old  citizens,  who  recall  also  Harris's  early  association  with  "Uncle" 
Bob  Capers,  an  Eatonton  teamster  owned  by  the  Capers  family, 
"Aunt"  Betsy  Cuthbert,  and  other  good  old  slaves. 


Biographical  35 

quarter  of  a  century  afterwards  Mr.  Harris  sought  to  repre 
sent  the  character  of  Mr.  Turner  in  this  respect  and  at  the 
same  time  revealed  his  own  heart  by  means  of  an  idealized 
account  of  his  going  from  Eatonton  to  begin  his  residence 
at  Turnwold.  He  wrote  that  as  he  and  Mr.  Turner  drove 
together  along  the  way  "the  editor  in  a  fanciful  way  went 
on  to  talk  about  Ben  Bolt  and  Bob  Roy  as  if  they  were  per 
sons  instead  of  horses ;  but  it  did  not  seem  fanciful  to  Joe, 
who  had  a  strange  sympathy  with  animals  of  all  kinds,  es 
pecially  horses  and  dogs.  It  pleased  him  greatly  to  think 
that  he  had  ideas  in  common  with  a  grown  man  who  knew 
how  to  write  for  the  papers/'1  Probably  one  of  the  first  of 
the  editor's  notes  given  to  Harris  to  be  set  in  type  for  The 
Countryman  (April  29,  1862)  was  significant : 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS 

For  a  number  of  years  past  we  have  kept  a  record  of 
the  return  of  the  birds  that  migrate  south  at  the  approach 
of  [winter?].  We  give  here  the  date  of  their  appearance 
this  spring,  as  taken  from  our  notebook.  [Eight  entries  fol 
low,  as  various  birds  had  been  first  noticed  in  April.] 

Flocking  in  the  woods  about  the  printing  office,  the  birds, 
along  with  the  squirrels  that  played  on  the  roof,  sometimes 
afforded  the  little  typesetter  his  only  company.  Butterfly 
became  Joe's  favorite  pony.  The  harriers  were  at  his  com 
mand  when  his  work  was  done  in  the  afternoons.  The 
young  negroes  were  anxious  to  "run  rabbits"  with  him 
whenever  he  chose  company.  In  addition  to  the  sport,  there 
came  through  The  Countryman,  January  26,  1863,  another 
incentive  to  learn  the  ways  of  animals  (and  to  the  boy  who 
was  receiving  by  way  of  visible  return  for  his  work  only 
his  board  and  clothes  this  was  a  certain  incentive2)  : 

'"On  the  Plantation,"  Chapter  I. 

2Boston  Globe,  November  3,  1907.    James  B.  Morrow. 


36  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

FUR  WANTED. — I  will  pay  10  cents  apiece  for  every 
good  rabbit  skin  delivered  at  my  hat  shop ;  50  cents  for  ev 
ery  good  coonskin;  $3.00  for  every  good  otter  skin;  $5.00 
for  every  beaver  skin ;  and  for  mink,  fox,  and  muskrat  fur 
in  proportion.  The  animal  must  be  killed  between  the  i$th 
of  October  and  the  I5th  of  March.  J.  A.  TURNER. 

January  26,  1863. 

A  series  of  articles  on  foxes,  fox  hounds,  and  fox-hunting 
was  published  in  The  Countryman  during  1863  and  1864. 
Mr.  Turner  was  always  very  fond  of  fox-hunting.  Often 
parties  of  friends  spent  several  days  as  his  guests  for  hunt 
ing  festivals.  Mr.  Harris  recalls  this  custom  in  a  chapter 
of  "On  the  Plantation,"  entitled  "A  Georgia  Fox  Hunt." 
His  realistic  accounts  of  fox  hunts  written  soon  after  he  left 
Turnwold  first  indicated  his  talent  in  the  field  of  narrative 
fiction.1  But  while  fox-hunting  had  its  excitement,  coon-  and 
possum-hunting  had  their  charm.  His  favorite  black  com 
panions  for  this  sport  had  never  worked  so  hard  during  the 
day  that  they  were  not  ready  to  accompany  "Little  Marster" 
at  night.  Then  it  was — when  the  coon  was  located  in  his 
hollow,  or  the  eyes  of  the  possum  shined  in  the  tree  top,  and 
the  old  negro  began  to  carry  on  a  conversation  with  the  ani 
mal — that  Joe  Harris  captured,  along  with  the  possum  and 
the  coon,  the  spirit  of  the  negroes  that  moves  through  their 
animal  tales,  making  easy  the  way  for  himself  to  become  the 
supreme  master  of  his  craft.3 

1See  later  account  of  his  life  in  Forsyth,  Georgia;  also  Part  II. 
2The  old  negro's  talking  to  the  coon  or  possum  is  still  a  familiar 
source  of  fun  to  those  who  hunt  in  the  South. 


Ill 

IT  now  remains  to  discover  what  direct  literary  influ 
ences  were  moving  upon  Harris  during  his  years  on  the 
Turner  plantation.    Can  we  find  something  of  his  first 
inclination  to  write,  whether  from  his  observation,  study,  or 
imagination,  while  he  was  a  printer  in  The  Countryman  of 
fice?    Did  he  receive  at  this  time  any  encouragement  and 
assistance?     Did  he  produce  anything  worth  while  during 
the  four  years?     Happily,  we  are  able  to  give  to  each  of 
these  questions  full  answer,  based  upon  detailed  and  specific 
evidence. 

In  all  the  sketches  of  Harris  that  have  so  far  appeared 
much  has  been  made  of  his  contributions  to  The  Country 
man  signed  "Countryman's  Devil."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
did  put  some  things  in  The  Countryman  over  that  signature, 
but  they  gave  little  evidence  of  literary  possibilities.  Indeed, 
they  were  only  a  series  of  puns;  and  the  evidence  of  any 
thing  literary  about  Harris,  so  far  as  they  are  concerned, 
lies  perhaps  in  the  fact  that  his  critical  judgment  would  not 
allow  him  to  sign  his  own  name.  However,  it  must  not  be 
overlooked  that  he  was  here  finding  new  expression  for  that 
same  spirit  of  fun  which  was  manifest  in  his  boyish  pranks 
already  written  of.  And  the  successful  paragraphist  of  the 
next  decade  was  here  in  the  making.  A  few  examples  of 
these  efforts  at  wit,  selected  from  the  whole,  follow : 

Why  must  Governor  Brown's  reputation  as  commander- 
in-chief  of  our  forces  grow  less? 

Because  for  all  his  military  reputation  he  is  obliged  to 
Wayne. — Countryman's  Devil. 

Why  would  it  be  highly  criminal  to  make  C  hard  in  the 
name  of  one  of  the  Alabama  Confederate  senators? 

(37) 


38  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Because  Alabama  would  then  be  represented  in  the  Senate 
by  a  Yankey. 

Why  would  it  be  criminal  to  make  C  soft  in  the  other 
Alabama  senator's  name  ? 

Because  it  would  make  him  Slay,  when  the  Bible  says: 
"Thou  shalt  not  kill." 

Why  are  women  opposed  to  the  repeal  of  the  Stay  law? 
Because  a  great  many  of  them  consider  stays  their  chief 
support. — Countryman's  Devil. 

Harris  found  amusement  in  this  way  chiefly  during  his 
second  year  (1863)  at  Turnwold.  Other  papers  that  year 
took  notice  of  his  paragraphs.  The  Augusta  Constitutional 
ist,  for  instance,  carried  the  following:  "Our  brother  of 
The  Countryman  has  been  publishing  a  number  of  sharp 
sayings  of  late  which  he  uniformly  ascribes  to  'our  devil/  " 
Whereupon  the  Confederate  Union  propounds  as  follows : 

Why  is  the  editor  of  The  Countryman  like  the  enemy's 
fleet  when  they  attacked  Charleston? 
Because  he  puts  his  "devil"  foremost. 

The  first  piece  that  appeared  in  The  Countryman  over  his 
name  follows: 

GRUMBLERS 

I  was  reading  yesterday  in  a  very  remarkable  book  which 
some  over-ignorant  people  aver  never  existed;  but  as  to 
whether  it  exists  or  not,  I  leave  for  the  common  sense  of 
the  reader  to  judge.  The  copy  of  the  work  which  I  have 
before  me  was  procured  for  me  by  a  friend  at  a  great  cost 
from  the  Caliph  Haroun  Al  Rascid.  The  name  of  the  cu 
rious  book  is  the  "Tellmenow  Isitsoornot,"  written  by  that 
justly  celebrated  Grand  Vizier,  Hopandgofetchit.  The  read 
er  will  think  all  this  highly  nonsensical  and,  at  the  same  time, 
foreign  to  my  subject;  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  necessary  that 
I  give  some  account  of  this  book,  as  there  are  but  two  cop 
ies  of  it  in  the  new  world,  one  of  which  I  own  [at]  the  pres 
ent  period.  In  this  book,  beginning  on  the  second  page  of 


Biographical  39 

Chapter  I.,  will  be  found  a  very  minute  account  of  the  dif 
ferent  classes  of  men.  It  speaks  of  grumblers  as  follows : 
"These  are  the  delicate  morsels  of  humanity  who  cannot  be 
pleased,  who  are  so  fastidious  and  dissatisfied  that  all  the 
world  cannot  reconcile  them  to  their  lot.  They  grumble  at 
the  providence  of  God/'  (The  reader  will  bear  in  mind  that 
I  translate  verbatim  et  literatim.)  "These  men  who  are 
dissatisfied  with  the  state  in  which  God  has  placed  them," 
the  work  goes  on  to  state,  "are  mostly  idlers  and  vagabonds, 
though  they  are  formed  of  all  classes — the  rich,  the  poor, 
the  black,  the  white,  and  all.  These  are  a  distinct  race  of 
the  genus  homo.  Their  dialect  has  a  monotonous  nasal 
twang,  sometimes  loud  and  emphatic,  at  others  low  and 
moaning.  Their  grammars  indicate  a  frequent  use  of  the 
pronoun  we  and  such  interrogations  as  these :  'What  shall 
we  do?'  and  'How  are  we  to  live  such  times  as  these ?"' 
They  use  such  interrogations  as  these  to  great  redundancy. 
"The  present  war"  (the  war  waged  by  Mahomet?)  "has  de 
veloped  their  strikingly  deformed  character.  ...  So  this 
race  now  stands  at  the  head  of  everything  that  is  remarka 
ble  or  in  the  least  curious."  And  to  prove  how  curious  and 
yet  how  common  they  are,  let  me  relate  a  short  anecdote. 
"This  race,"  the  book  continues,  "were  first  found  in  the 
Eastern  Hemisphere,  and  the  news  of  their  discovery  spread 
so  fast  that  it  reached  the  barbarians  of  the  Western  World 
in  a  few  days.  But  before  we  were  aware  that  the  tidings 
had  left  our  own  country,  one  of  the  American  savages  had 
already  landed  and  was  endeavoring  to  procure  a  specimen 
of  these  'grumblers'  to  place  in  a  museum.  Burn  him"  (the 
writer  evidenty  means  Barnum)  "soon  procured  a  fine  spec 
imen;  but  as  soon  as  he  saw  him  he  turned  off  with:  'O 
pshaw!  Plenty  of  them  at  home!'  So  you  see  how  common, 
as  well  as  curious,  they  are."  Here  the  chapter  on  grum 
blers  ends,  and  here  my  quotation  ends.  It  is  highly  impor 
tant  that  every  one  should  read  "Tellmenow  Isitsoornot,"  as 
it  contains  many  valuable  lessons ;  but  as  every  one  cannot 
procure  a  copy  of  it,  I  shall  content  myself  by  occasionally 
presenting  a  chapter  to  the  readers  of  The  Countryman. 

J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

lThe  Countryman,  December  15,  1862. 


40  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Grumblers"  was  published  nine  months  after  Harris's 
arrival  at  Turnwold,  when  he  had  just  passed  his  four 
teenth  birthday.  In  addition  to  showing  his  inclination  to 
write,  it  shows  an  early  acquaintance  with  the  "Arabian 
Nights"  and  taste  for  imaginative  writing.  May  we  not, 
too,  foresee  the  mischievous  boy  of  the  playground  becom 
ing  the  humorist  of  literature? 

Along  with  his  puns  of  the  next  year  he  contributed  sev 
eral  articles  that  revealed  his  more  sober  nature.  Two  of 
the  longer  ones,  and  the  best,  are  given  here.1  As  may  be 
seen  elsewhere,  there  is  seen  in  the  first  piece  evidence  of 
his  reading  Bryant,  and  likely  he  was  writing  something  of 
his  own  experience : 

SABBATH  EVENING  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

People  who  live  in  the  crowded  cities,  as  a  general  thing, 
have  no  idea  of  the  beautiful  stillness  of  a  Sabbath  evening 
in  the  country,  far  away  from  the  bustle  and  turmoil  attend 
ant  on  city  life.  In  a  city  one  cannot  read  or  worship  God 
as  he  would  choose.  He  must  needs  be  interrupted;  while 
in  the  country  it  is  just  the  reverse.  One  can  go  out  into 
the  open  fields,  or  glide  into  the  dark  foliage  of  the  screen 
ing  forest,  and  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  some  cloud- 
capped  vine,  and  read  his  Bible  or  reflect  or  give  utterance 
to  his  thoughts  in  words — hold  converse,  as  it  were,  with  na 
ture's  God  or  listen  to  the  lays  of  the  lark  as  she  ascends 
heavenward.  He  can  hark  to  the  merry  piping  of  the  tree- 
frog  and  various  other  beautiful  sounds  without  fear  of 
being  disturbed.  He  can  hear  the  mournful  cadence  of 
the  evening  zephyr  as  it  whispers  its  tale  of  love  to  the 
pine  tree  tops,  tossing  to  and  fro,  as  it  mournfully  chants  the 
requiem  of  departing  day. 

It  reminds  us  of  the  evening  of  life,  when  gently  we  are 
swayed  to  and  fro  by  the  hand  of  time,  gently  we  go  down 
the  billowy  tide  of  life,  gently  we  sink  into  the  tomb,  all 
nature  chanting  our  requiem. 

1For  his  other  contributions  to  The  Countryman,  see  Part  II. 


Biographical  41 

Is  it  not  a  beautiful  thought  to  ease  us  down  into  the 
grave,  to  think  that  the  evening  wind  sighing  among  the 
pines  is  mourning  the  death  of  man?  Is  it  not  a  comfort 
to  those  who  have  no  one  to  love  them — the  orphan  or  the 
childless  widow — to  think  that  God  has  provided  one  thing 
to  mourn  our  fall,  and  that  it  has  been  provided  ever  since 
the  creation  of  our  first  parents?  J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

The  other  piece,  published  a  few  months  later,  shows 
his  imagination  again  at  free  play  and  may  show,  too,  a 
familiarity  with  Poe,  possibly  with  Chivers : 

LOST 

Was  I  dreaming,  or  was  it  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  passing 
between  my  barred  window  and  the  moon  that  flitted  before 
my  vision?  Or  was  it  in  reality  the  form  of  Eloele?  Ah! 
no ;  nothing  but  the  phantasm  of  a  grief-stricken  and  gloomy 
mind.  'Twas  long  ago  when  I  knew  Eloele — long  ago! 
But  I  thought  I  saw  her  last  night  as  once  I  saw  her  in  days 
long  past  and  gone — saw  her  pass  before  me  as  of  yore; 
saw  her  in  her  gentle  beauty,  with  her  loving  blue  eyes  upon 
me,  with  her  golden  curls  floating  in  the  evening  breeze,  as 
in  auld  lang  syne. 

Yes,  I  know  it  must  have  been  her ;  for  she  beckoned  me 
on,  and  I  tried  to  clasp  her  airy  form  to  keep  her  with  me ; 
but  something  whispered,  "Lost!"  and  she  was  gone. 

People  come  to  visit  me  in  my  cell  and  look  pityingly  on 
me.  They  fasten  me  down  to  the  floor  with  a  cruel  chain 
to  keep  me  quiet,  they  say ;  but  I  would  hurt  no  one — O  no ! 
Why  do  they  not  tell  me  of  my  wife,  my  Eloele?  I  would 
be  quiet,  very  quiet.  I  have  asked  them  of  her,  but  they 
say  nothing  and  only  shake  their  heads. 

Something  tells  me  she  is  murdered ;  and  when  she  comes 
to  me  in  my  slumber  she  has  a  cruel  gash  across  her 
throat  and  another  on  her  head.  But  I  never  struck  her! 
I  never  inflicted  those  cruel  wounds  upon  her — O  no!  I 
loved  her  too  well  for  that. 

Why  don't  they  let  her  come  to  me?    Because  they  think 

*The  Countryman,  February  17,  1863. 


42  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

me  mad?  I  will  not  live  long;  and  then,  if  she  is  dead,  I 
will  see  her  again,  and  she  will  be  no  longer  a  shadow.  But 
while  I  live  every  voice  and  passing  wind  will  whisper: 
"Lost  Eloele!"  J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

Harris  had  now  been  contributing  to  The  Countryman 
for  about  a  year.  He  had  probably  drawn  no  praise  or  com 
ment  from  the  various  papers  for  his  more  serious  efforts. 
But  he  had  attracted  the  attention  of  one  whose  words 
would  mean  far  more  to  him  than  any  newspaper  notoriety. 
The  editor  of  The  Countryman  had  observed  his  young 
apprentice  with  care.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  impressed 
with  Harris's  performance  of  the  duties  to  which  he  had 
been  assigned.  Nearly  a  year  had  passed,  when  Christmas 
brought  the  editor's  employees  their  first  holidays,  and  Mr. 
Turner  wrote  in  The  Countryman  of  December  22,  1862: 
"The  printers  in  The  Countryman  office  have  served  the 
editor  and  subscribers  of  this  journal  faithfully  during  the 
present  year,  and  Mr.  Wilson  and  Joe  and  Jim2  deserve  the 
thanks  of  us  all.  Certainly,  then,  they  ought  to  have  a 
Christmas  holiday."  About  six  months  further  passed,  and 
the  editor  wrote  of  Harris :  "The  Confederate  Union  is  dis 
posed  to  undervalue  the  services  of  The  Countryman's  devil. 
If  it  only  knew  what  a  smart  devil  The  Countryman  has,  it 
would  not  do  so.  Just  ask  your  'Jim'  about  it,  Brother  Nis- 
bet.  He  knows  'our  devil.'"  (The  Countryman,  May  5, 
1863.)  On  September  8,  1863,  he  made  this  acknowledg 
ment  through  The  Countryman:  "We  have  received  from 
'J.  C.  H.'  a  critique  to  show  that  'Hindoo'  is  not  a  rhyme 
to  'window.'  "  He  followed  this  with  a  half-column  discus 
sion.  However,  had  Mr.  Turner  given  no  further  atten- 

1The  Countryman,  June  30,  1863. 

2James  P.  Harrison,  a  most  valuable  friend  of  Harris's  later  life 
in  Forsyth  and  in  Atlanta. 


Biographical  43 

tion,  or  attention  only  of  this  kind,  to  the  young  writer,  very 
little  importance  could  be  attached  to  his  literary  influence 
upon  Harris.  He  did  not  stop  here.  The  older  writer,  full 
of  experience  and  skilled  by  practice,  took  the  younger  un 
der  private  care  in  a  personal  effort,  by  unobtrusive  assist 
ance  and  timely  counsel,  to  develop  the  talent  that  had  shown 
itself. 

In  order  to  show  that  Mr.  Turner  was  qualified  to  recog 
nize  literary  talent  and  to  aid  in  its  cultivation,  something 
further  may  be  added  about  his  own  literary  work.  Both 
at  the  old  Phoenix  Academy  and  at  Emory  College  he  had 
been  distinguished  for  his  ability  to  write.  Two  years  be 
fore  the  birth  of  Harris  he  had  first  appeared  in  print 
through  several  articles,  signed  "Orion,"  in  the  Temperance 
Banner,  Augusta,  Georgia  (  ?  ).  He  had  for  some  years  been 
attempting  verse  and,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Frank 
Kemble,  published  in  1847,  through  James  M.  Cafferty  (?), 
Augusta,  Georgia,  a  volume  entitled  "Kemble's  Poems/' 
Ten  years  later  "The  Discovery  of  Sir  John  Franklin  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  J.  A.  Turner,  came  from  the  press  of 
S.  H.  Goetzell  &  Co.,  Mobile.  He  wrote,  in  addition,  a 
considerable  amount  of  political  verse  satire.  "On  the  I7th 
day  of  July,  1859,  I  completed,"  he  writes  in  his  "Autobiog 
raphy,"  "my  poem,  'The  Old  Plantation/  and  wrote  the 
preface  to  it,  having  been  industriously  engaged  on  the  poem 
for  about  eighteen  months."  It  was  first  published  in  The 
Countryman  (1862),  and  from  the  press  of  that  paper  was 
issued  in  pamphlet  form.  He  left  in  manuscript  three  long 
poems— "The  Maid  of  Owyhee,"  "Jonathan,"  and  "The 
Nigger:  A  Satire."  In  1848  (the  year  of  Harris's  birth) 
Mr.  Turner  was  a  contributor  to  the  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger  and  the  Southern  Literary  Gazette.  Later  (1851-53) 
he  wrote  miscellaneous  articles  also  for  DeBow's  Review, 
Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Peterson's  Magazine,  the  Southern 


44  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Record,  Federal  Union,  Augusta  Constitutionalist,  New 
York  Day  Book,  Spirit  of  the  Times,  etc.  As  publisher  he 
had  much  experience.  It  was  in  1848,  again,  when  he  was 
only  twenty-two,  that  he  undertook  his  first  magazine,  Tur 
ner's  Monthly.  It  failed  after  three  months'  publication  at 
Madison,  Georgia.  In  1853  Benjamin  F.  Griffin  published 
for  him  one  number  of  a  second  magazine,  styled  The  Tom 
ahawk.  In  1854-55,  while  practicing  law  in  Eatonton,  Mr. 
Turner  published  "a  weekly  miscellaneous  journal,"  the  In 
dependent  Press,  which,  says  the  "Autobiography,"  "ob 
tained  considerable  circulation  and  great  popularity,  owing 
to  its  independent  and  fearless  tone."  In  1860,  while  living 
at  Turnwold,  he  had  published  by  Pudney  &  Russell,  New 
York,  The  Plantation:  A  Quarterly  Review,  which  the  war 
cut  off  after  four  numbers.  Finally,  in  1862,  came  that 
wonderful  little  paper  whose  "devil"  has  lent  to  it  immor 
tality.  Through  its  immediate  agency  Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris  was  lifted  out  of  obscurity  and  drawn  into  his  prepara 
tion  for  fame.  It  must,  therefore,  receive  distinct  attention. 
The  first  issue  of  The  Countryman  appeared  March  4, 
1862;  the  last  issue  May  8,  1866.  Mr.  Harris  said:  "The 
type  was  old  and  worn ;  and  the  hand  press,  a  Washington, 
No.  2,  had  seen  considerable  service."1  But,  perhaps  to  the 
greater  credit  of  the  printers,  not  an  issue  of  the  paper  ap 
peared  whose  print  was  not  clear  and  general  mechanical 
appearance  not  neat.  The  first  issue  was  a  sheet  folded 
once,  giving  four  pages,  each  with  four  columns  eighteen  by 
three  inches.  Under  the  vicissitudes  of  the  time,  the  size 
varied  from  four  to  sixteen  pages,  with  a  fluctuating  sub 
scription  price.2  The  editor  had  fixed  a  high  ideal  for  this 

luOn  the  Plantation,"  page  21. 

2The  changes  made  in  the  paper  during  the  four  years  of  its  pub 
lication  were  as  follows :  Volume  V.,  No.  3,  four  pages  and  reduced 
print,  on  account  of  the  burning  of  the  Bath  Paper  Factory.  Price 


Biographical  45 

journal.  This  is  fully  set  forth  in  the  prospectus  of  an  early 
issue  (April  15,  1862)  and  reads: 

The  Countryman  is  a  little  paper  published  on  the  edi 
tor's  plantation,  nine  miles  from  Eatonton,  at  one  dollar  per 
annum,  invariably  in  advance.  We  do  not  profess  to  pub 
lish  a  newspaper,  for,  under  the  circumstances  that  is  im 
possible.  Our  aim  is  to  mold  our  journal  after  Addison's 
little  paper,  The  Spectator,  Steele's  little  paper,  The  Tatler, 
Johnson's  little  papers,  The  Rambler  and  The  Adventurer, 
and  Goldsmith's  little  paper,  The  Bee,  neither  of  which,  we 
believe,  was  as  large  as  The  Countryman.  It  is  our  aim  to 
fill  our  little  paper  with  essays,  poems,  sketches,  agricultural 
articles,  and  choice  miscellany.  We  do  not  intend  to  pub 
lish  anything  that  is  dull,  didactic,  or  prosy.  We  wish  to 
make  a  neatly  printed,  select  little  paper,  a  pleasant  com 
panion  for  the  leisure  hour,  and  to  relieve  the  minds  of  our 

advanced  from  $2  to  $3  a  year.  (There  had  been  a  previous  advance 
from  $i  to  $2  a  year.)  Vol.  V.,  No.  13,  return  to  full  sheets,  $3  per 
annum.  Vol.  VI.,  No.  5  (on  or  before),  $5  per  annum.  Vol.  VI., 
No.  12,  change  of  motto  from  "Brevity  Is  the  Soul  of  Wit"  to  "In 
dependent  in  Everything,  Neutral  in  Nothing."  Vol.  VII.,  No.  I, 
W.  W.  Turner,  brother  of  J.  A.  Turner,  is  called  in  as  associate 
editor.  Vol.  VII.,  No.  i,  is  followed  by  Vol.  IX.,  No.  i,  Vol.  X.,  No. 
I,  Vol.  XL,  No.  i,  and  so  on  to  Vol.  XVIII.,  the  volume  number 
being  changed  each  week  instead  of  the  issue  number.  The  dates 
are  regular.  January  5,  1864,  $10  per  annum.  Pages  doubled  after 
first  issue.  Vol.  XIX.,  No  18  (May  3,  1864),  $5  for  four  months. 
Vol.  XIX.,  No.  21,  drops  back  to  eight  pages  (lack  of  paper).  Vol. 
XIX.,  No.  30,  $5  for  three  months.  Vol.  XX.,  No.  21,  $3  per  annum. 
Size  reduced  to  four  pages.  Vol.  XX.,  No.  23,  Motto,  "Independent 
in  Nothing,  Neutral  in  Everything."  Just  at  this  time  (June,  1865) 
Mr.  Turner  was  placed  under  military  arrest  and  put  under  such 
restrictions  in  publication  that  the  paper  was  suspended  between 
June  27,  1865,  and  January  30,  1866.  Vol.  XXL,  No.  I  (January  30, 
1866),  motto,  "Devoted  to  the  Editor's  Opinions."  $2  per  annum. 
Vol.  XXI,  No.  3,  $3  per  annum.  Vol.  XXL,  No.  15  (May  8,  1866), 
last  issue.  Vol.  I.,  Nos.  12,  13,  14,  Vol.  II.,  Nos.  3,  7,  8,  and  Vol. 
XIX.,  No.  24,  are  missing  from  Mr.  Harris's  file. 


46  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

people  somewhat  from  the  engrossing  topic  of  war  news. 
Write  the  following  address  in  full :  J.  A.  TURNER,  Turn- 
wold,  Putnam  County,  Georgia. 

He  had  earlier  taken  his  entire  first  page  for  a  discussion 
of  little  papers,  with  especial  reference  to  Steele,  Addison, 
Goldsmith,  Johnson,  Washington  Irving,  and  James  K. 
Paulding.  He  was  extremely  anxious  to  make  his,  too,  a  lit 
tle  paper  that  would  be  preserved  as  permanent  literature. 
The  contents  might  be  matter  written  immediately  for  the 
paper,  or  it  might  be  something  carefully  selected  from  va 
rious  sources.  For  example,  in  the  eighth  issue  (April  22, 
1862)  there  appears  an  article  on  "De  La  Rochefoucauld/' 
from  DTsraeli's  account  of  Rochefoucauld  in  "Curiosities 
of  Literature,"  followed  by  the  editor's  statement  of  his  in 
tention  to  "lay  before  our  readers  many  of  the  maxims  of 
the  noble  French  author,"  the  truth  to  be  embraced,  the 
error  rejected  by  the  reader's  own  judgment.  While  it  was 
not  possible  to  keep  the  contents  of  the  paper  literary  to  the 
full  extent  of  the  editor's  desire,  each  issue  carried  much 
of  more  than  temporary  worth.  It  is  exceedingly  interest 
ing  to  know  that  in  what  turned  out  to  be  the  last  issue  of 
The  Countryman  Mr.  Turner  began  to  publish  an  English 
grammar  of  his  own  construction.  The  front  page  of  the 
issue  of  March  18,  1862,  was  used  for  the  editor's  review 
of  Dickens's  "Hard  Times."  The  same  issue  carried  a  full 
column  on  Chaucer.  Some  other  of  his  personal  contribu 
tions  have  already  been  noted.  His  interest  in  a  distinctly 
Southern  literature  is  seen  constantly.  The  Countryman  of 
February  14,  1865,  publishes  a  list  of  about  one  hundred 
Southern  poets.  April  i,  1862,  appeared  Henry  Timrod's 
"A  Cry  to  Arms,"  with  this  editorial  comment:  "We  copy 
the  .  .  .  spirited  lines  from  the  Charleston  Courier.  They 
have  no  superiors  in  English  nor  in  any  other  language." 


Biographical  47 

February  13  and  March  13,  1866,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  un 
der  discussion,  with  particular  reference  to  the  ill-received 
Griswold's  "Life  of  Poe."  The  Countryman  prospectus, 
September  13,  1864,  declares  the  editor's  desire  in  this  pa 
per  to  revive  Nile's  Register,  having  as  an  additional  fea 
ture  "a  department  of  elegant  literature,  rejecting  the  style 
of  the  Yankee  literary  journals  and  modeling  itself  after 
the  best  English  miscellaneous  weeklies,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  being  stamped  with  an  independent  Southern  tone 
original  with  and  peculiar  to  itself."  At  another  time  (The 
Countryman,  Vol.  II.,  No.  i)  he  wrote:  "So  few  Southern 
literary  or  miscellaneous  journals  succeed.  But  it  is  abso 
lutely  necessary  that  the  Southern  people  should  have  these 
kinds  of  journals."  In  the  issue  of  September  29,  1862,  we 
read:  "With  the  beginning  of  the  third  volume  of  this  jour 
nal  its  form  is  changed,  so  as  to  make  it  more  convenient 
for  binding."  To  this  purpose  an  additional  fold  was  made, 
giving  the  page  a  size  nine  by  twelve  inches.  How  anxious 
was  this  ambitious  man  to  have  his  publication  preserved! 
This  was  his  final  effort  in  behalf  of  Southern  literature. 
When  this  effort  had  bravely  spent  itself,  and  he  realized 
that  he  must  soon  give  up  publishing  The  Countryman,  he 
wrote  in  its  columns  of  February  13,  1866: 

Scarcely  any  one  has  been  a  more  industrious  writer  than 
I,  and  scarcely  any  one  has  made  greater  sacrifices  for 
Southern  literature  than  I.  I  have  not  only  expended  large 
sums  of  money  in  the  cause ;  but  while  I  might  have  made  a 
fortune,  perhaps,  by  falling  into  the  Yankee  style  of  litera 
ture,  and  might  have  gained  notoriety,  if  not  fame,  at  the 
hands  of  the  Yankee  critics  by  pandering  to  their  vicious 
tastes,  I  refused  to  make  money  and  accept  such  fame  in 
order  to  remain  peculiarly  and  entirely  Southern. 

Such  was  the  character  of  The  Countryman,  and  the  tre 
mendously  stimulative  influence  that  his  intimate  connection 


48  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

with  it  exerted  upon  Harris  was  greater  than  can  be  well 
understood  to-day.  The  typesetter  at  the  modern  linotype 
machine  does  his  work  mechanically,  with  often  a  stupefy 
ing  effect  upon  his  mind,  so  far  as  the  matter  before  him  is 
concerned.  But  very  different,  surely,  was  the  effect  upon 
the  mind  of  young  Harris  as  he  sat,  sometimes  alone,  at  his 
case  in  the  quiet  little  plantation  printing  shop,  studying  the 
learned  matter  contained  in  the  voluminous  editorial  manu 
script  and  reflecting  upon  the  selections  from  standard  lit 
erature  marked  for  him  to  set  in  type  for  the  paper.  He 
took  time  to  think;  to  chuckle  over  the  paragraphs,  compli 
mentary  and  otherwise,  that  passed  back  and  forth  between 
the  editor  of  The  Countryman  and  other  editors ;  to  develop 
his  critical  ability  as  his  eye  ran  over  the  contributions  prof 
fered  by  ambitious  writers  from  the  country  around;  to 
form  his  own  picture  of  the  war  and  draw  his  own  conclu 
sions  as  he  followed  the  weekly  letters  from  correspondents 
at  the  battle  front.  He  knew  each  week  everything  that 
was  in  the  paper,  coming  soon  to  take  a  proprietary  interest 
in  it  and  to  measure  the  various  exchanges  by  it  as  standard. 
His  affection  for  the  paper  appears  in  a  note  written  with 
pencil  on  the  margin  of  the  last  issue,  carefully  preserved 
to  the  end  of  his  life : 

This  is  the  very  last  number  of  The  Countryman  ever  is 
sued.  I  mean  this  is  the  last  paper  printed;  and  it  was 
printed  by  my  hand  May  9,  1866.  It  was  established  March 
4,  1862,  having  lived  four  years,  two  months,  and  four  days. 

J.  C.  HARRIS." 

From  the  record  of  Mr.  Turner's  creative  work  in  litera 
ture,  it  is  clear  that  he  was  abundantly  able  to  teach  a  young 
writer.  And  we  are  not  left  merely  to  imagine  that  he  per 
sonally  instructed  Harris.  One  of  the  most  valuable  results 

1Paper  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris. 


Biographical  49 

of  the  present  research  was  accomplished  when  there  was 
found,  in  Mr.  Turner's  own  handwriting,  dated  when  Har 
ris  had  been  with  him  two  years  and  had  yet  two  years  of 
apprenticeship,  a  note  that  bespeaks  the  relationship  of 
teacher  and  pupil  as  follows : 

For  the  first  time  since  you  sent  in  this  article  I  have 
found  time  to  examine  it ;  and  though  it  has  merit,  I  regret 
that  I  have  to  reject  it,  because  it  is  not  up  to  the  standard 
of  The  Countryman. 

In  the  first  place,  you  have  made  a  bad  selection  in  the 
article  you  have  chosen  for  a  subject.  That  article  is  con 
temptible  and  beneath  criticism.  Captain  Flash  did  his  pa 
per  injustice  in  publishing  it. 

In  the  next  place,  there  is  want  of  unity  and  condensation 
in  your  article.  It  is  headed  "Irishmen :  Tom  Moore,"  and 
then  goes  off  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  and  is  too  dif 
fuse  on  everything  it  touches. 

In  writing  hereafter,  first  select  a  good,  worthy  subject; 
second,  stick  to  that  subject;  and,  third,  say  what  you  have 
to  say  in  as  few  words  as  possible.  Study  the  "nervous 
condensation"  which  you  so  much  admire  in  Captain  Flash. 

All  this  is  for  your  good.  J.  A.  TURNER/ 

August  21,  1864. 

The  first  sentence  of  this  note  shows  that  whatever  Harris 
wrote — for  The  Countryman,  at  least — passed  under  Mr. 
Turner's  supervision  and  at  times  received  his  specific  criti 
cism.  We  are  fortunate  in  having  this  note  that  accompa 
nied  a  rejected  article.  It  shows  that  Mr.  Turner  was  not 
the  man  to  accept  whatever  came  from  the  pen  of  his  prote 
ge.  Such  an  attitude  on  his  part  would  have  been,  as  he  well 
knew,  poison  to  the  young  writer.  But  how  was  he  to  avoid 
discouraging  forever  one  whose  fearful  sensitiveness  char- 


1This  note  was  found  loose  among  various  old  papers  in  one  of 
Mr.  Harris's  scrapbooks  in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris. 
4 


50  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

acterized  him  from  his  earliest  days?1  This  note  exhibits 
that  splendid  tact  which  during  the  four  years  must  have 
wrought  unfailing  effect  upon  Harris.  First,  he  places  the 
burden  of  the  trouble  on  the  subject  selected,  rather  than  on 
the  article  itself;  then  he  tells  just  where  the  article  is  weak 
in  composition ;  then,  constructively,  he  suggests  three  defi 
nite  principles  for  all  writing  and  joins  hands  with  the  young 
writer  on  the  principle  of  "nervous  condensation,"  which 
Harris  had  already  discovered.  In  a  manner  of  parental 
affection  he  closes  with :  "All  this  is  for  your  good."  We 
are  to  understand  the  spirit  of  confidence  and  thankful  grat 
itude  in  which  this  instruction  from  the  older  writer  was 
received  from  the  fact  that  until  this  day  the  note  here 
quoted  is  preserved  in  a  precious  old  scrapbook  of  Mr.  Har 
ris's.  But  had  the  rejection  of  the  article  given  offense, 
palliation  was  to  follow  through  a  complimentary  paragraph 
from  the  editor  in  The  Countryman  of  the  next  week  Au 
gust  30,  1864: 

WHY  IS  IT? 

That  gentleman  (we  forget  his  name)  who  is  writing 
some  articles  for  the  Raleigh  Mercury  on  the  literature  of 
the  South  does  not  give  proper  credit  when  credit  is  due. 
In  his  notice  of  Henry  Lynden  Flash  he  uses  pretty ^  freely 
an  article  of  our  young  correspondent,  Joel  C.  Harris,  and 
yet  never  gives  that  correspondent  the  credit  which  is  his 
due. 

The  editor  in  his  own  composition,  too,  set  an  example 
for  his  pupil.  Says  he :  "We  read  our  own  proof— reading 
and  re-reading,  revising  and  re-revising."2  Here  was  a 
writer  not  under  the  necessity  of  abiding  by  the  original 

*Mr.  Harris,  in  a  personal  letter  to  Mrs.  Georgia  Starke,  once 
wrote  with  deep  pathos  of  the  painful  sensitiveness  with  which  he 
had  always  been  afflicted.  See  this  letter  on  page  95. 

2The  Countryman. 


Biographical  5 1 

copy.  Being  proprietor  and  publisher,  as  well  as  editor,  he 
made  every  change  and  revision  that  judgment,  taste,  and 
fancy  might  suggest.  And  Harris,  having  set  up  in  type  the 
first  copy,  carried  the  proof  to  the  editor's  study,1  where,  as 
the  latter  read,  marked,  and  revised,  the  pupil  could  well- 
nigh  see  the  master's  mental  processes.  How  with  a  most 
commendable  curiosity  he  must  have  returned  to  the  quiet 
little  shop  and  studied  the  results  of  the  editor's  latest  revi 
sions  !  Mr.  Turner's  brother,  the  associate  editor,  also  as 
sisted  the  young  man.  Among  Mr.  Harris's  books  is  an  old, 
well-worn  copy  of  the  twentieth  edition  of  Parker's  "Aids 
to  English  Composition,"  marked  "William  W.  Turner  to 
J.  C.  Harris." 

A  good  library  was  the  one  thing  needed  to  complete  the 
equipment  for  literary  training  at  Turnwold.  It  was  at 
hand,  above  a  thousand  well-chosen  books,  one  of  the  valu 
able  private  libraries  of  the  time.2  Having,  in  a  way,  grad 
uated  from  the  smaller  libraries  of  his  Eatonton  friends, 
Harris  now  found  provided  for  him  books  of  all  kinds  and 
times.  And  at  his  side  was  his  eager  guardian  fully  compe 
tent  and  more  than  willing  to  guide  his  reading.3  We  have 
already  seen  how  the  "Arabian  Nights"  had  taken  his  fancy 
from  the  first.  Grimm's  "Fairy  Tales,"  too,  was  a  compan 
ion  favorite.  It  was  no  surprise  after  his  death  to  find  in 
the  library  of  his  own  home  that  the  most  worn  book  was 
"Mother  Goose's  Rhymes  and  Fairy  Tales."  It  was  such 
matter  in  books  that  sank  deep  into  this  boy's  mind  along 
with  the  tales  listened  to  in  the  negro  cabins.  Mr.  Wallace 
P.  Reed,  doubtless  from  conversation  with  Mr.  Harris, 
writes  that  Elizabethan  literature  became  the  general  field 

J"On  the  Plantation." 

2Most  of  this  library  is  still  kept  by  the  Turner  family. 

3Mrs.  Harris  confirms  this  assertion. 


52  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  his  early  interest.1  During  these  years,  when  his  mind 
was  most  impressible  and  memory  strongest,  he  became  fa 
miliar  with  the  best  authors  and  developed  an  abiding  taste 
for  such  reading.  So  was  he  preparing  to  be  in  after  years 
literary  critic  for  the  Atlanta  Constitution.  And,  despite 
his  lack  of  formal  training  in  the  schools,  he  was  absorbing 
those  excellencies  of  style  and  diction  that  characterize  his 
own  writing. 

"'Literature,"  October  27,  1888.    W.  P.  Reed. 


IV 

THAT  Mr.  Harris  took  advantage  of  his  opportunities 
and  made  steady  progress  under  Mr.  Turner's  tute 
lage  is  shown  by  the  increase  in  number  and  advance 
in  quality  of  his  contributions  to  The  Countryman.  Like 
his  teacher,  Mr.  Harris  early  attempted  poetry;  but  in  later 
life  he  declared  his  efforts  were  only  doggerel.  The  influ 
ence  of  Poe,  again,  seems  to  appear  in  the  first  two  poems 
that  follow.  The  third  is  given  to  show  his  experimentation 
with  the  sonnet.  The  last  is  quite  possibly  a  tribute  to  his 
mother,  whose  name  was  Mary.  "Minnie  Grey,"  too,  may 
be  a  tribute  to  Mr.  Turner's  eldest  daughter,  who  died  in 
February,  I864.1  Mr.  Turner,  in  his  poem,  "The  Old  Plan 
tation,"  himself  honored  his  little  idol,  Anne  Watson,  by 
calling  Turnwold  "Glen  Wattie."2 

MOSELLE3 

BY  JOEL  C.  HARRIS 

I  read  your  name  upon  this  stone, 

And,  weeping,  I  deplore 
That  the  Fate  that  made  you  proud  and  rich 

Should  have  made  me  proud  and  poor. 

I  dreamed  to-day  that  I  roamed  again 
In  a  bright  sun-lighted  dell ; 

1Harris's  contributions  to  The  Countryman  were  sometimes  writ 
ten  long  before  their  publication,  as  is  shown  by  the  date  occasional 
ly  given  with  his  signature. 

2"The  Old  Plantation,"  J.  A.  Turner.  (Published  in  The  Coun 
tryman,  1862,  and  in  pamphlet  form.) 

*The  Countryman,  February  20,  1866. 

(53) 


54  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Alas  for  the  dreamer's  waking  sigh ! 
Alas  for  the  dream,  Moselle ! 

I  dreamed  that  you  and  I  were  wed, 
And  the  dream  seemed  all  so  true ; 

And  O  what  a  happy  thing  it  was 
To  be  beloved  by  you ! 

Your  raven  hair  was  just  as  dark, 
Your  eye  had  just  the  gleam, 

As  when  we  met  in  the  long  ago ; 
I'm  sure  that  was  no  dream. 

You  said  you  loved  me  then,  I  know, 
While  your  bosom  rose  and  fell ; 

Alas  for  the  boy  that  happy  heard ! 
Alas  for  the  past,  Moselle ! 

Ah !  you  were  rich,  and  I  was  poor, 
And  the  poor  are  born  to  sigh  ; 

But  alas  for  the  rich  or  poor  who  weep 
When  the  vows  of  a  woman  die ! 

I've  often  wondered  how  it  is 
That  hearts  are  bought  and  sold  ; 

But  surely  yours  was  bought,  Moselle, 
With  the  gray-beard  miser's  gold. 

I  was  not  dreaming  when  I  heard 
Your  happy  marriage  bell. 

Alas  for  your  husband's  doting  pride ! 
And  alas  for  mine,  Moselle ! 

I  celebrate  that  bitter  day 

Through  all  the  growing  years, 

And  bow  me  low  in  the  evening  gloom 
To  keep  the  day  with  tears. 

In  promising  once  you  cheated  me, 
And  in  giving  you  cheated  him ; 


Biographical  55 

And  the  phantom  of  love  is  haunting  us  both 
With  features  pale  and  dim. 

You  loved  me  well  enough,  I  know ; 

But  your  love  for  him  was  sold ; 
And  you  wore  your  husband's  wedding  ring 

Because  the  ring  was  gold. 

Your  gray-beard  lover  was  deceived  in  you, 
For  he  thought  you  loved  him  well. 

Alas  for  the  blinded  eyes  of  love ! 
And  alas  for  mine,  Moselle  ! 

In  journeying  on  with  Memory 

Among  our  former  years, 
A  phantom  promise  hides  itself 

In  a  heavy  mist  of  tears. 

Those  tears  were  shed  by  me,  Moselle, 

When  we  parted  long  ago ; 
And  you  made  a  promise  then  that  you 

Would  live  for  me,  you  know. 

I  heard  the  ghoul-like  sexton  sound 

Your  solemn  funeral  knell, 
But  it  jarred  not  my  heart  with  so  much  pain 

As  did  your  marriage  bell. 

They  say  you  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
That  you  called  and  called  for  me, 

And  your  husband  hobbled  from  off  his  chair 
And  stood  where  you  could  see. 

But  lovers  all  must  part,  you  know, 

And  all  must  say,  "Farewell." 
Alas  for  the  pale  lips  speaking  it ! 

And  alas  for  mine,  Moselle ! 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA. 


5^  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

OUR  MINNIE  GREY* 

BY  JOEL  C.  HARRIS 

We  cozily  sit  around  the  hearth 

And  chat  on  a  winter  day, 
But  sad  sighs  check  our  smiling  mirth 

As  we  think  of  our  Minnie  Grey. 

For  she  was  the  pride  of  our  fond  hearts ; 

How  we  loved  her  none  can  tell. 
We  might  wear  black  for  the  youthful  dead, 

But  a  tear  does  just  as  well. 

It  seemed  to  us  as  if  no  cloud 
Could  come  with  its  dismal  shade 

Where  with  prattling  talk  and  laughter  loud 
Our  darling  Minnie  played. 

But  the  cloud  did  come  in  the  shape  of  Death, 
And  we  heard  his  stern  voice  say : 

"Ye  are  too  happy  here  with  her ; 
I  want  your  Minnie  Grey." 

And  so  she  closed  her  loving  eyes 

And  folded  her  hands  so  white 
Meekly  across  her  pure  young  breast 

And  slept  with  Christ  that  night. 

So  now  we  sit  around  the  hearth 

And  wait  for  a  coming  day 
When  we  may  leave  this  dreary  earth 

And  live  with  our  Minnie  Grey. 

TURN  WOLD,  GEORGIA. 

NATURE2 

BY  JOEL  C.  HARRIS 

I  see  the  dark  old  woods  their  heads  uprear, 
Standing  embattled  against  the  deep  blue  sky. 
Their  fauns — almost  see  them  sporting  by, 

And  hear  the  dryads  whispering  softly  near. 

*The  Countryman,  March  6,  1866.    2The  Countryman,  March  13,  1866. 


Biographical  57 

Feronia's  oracles  I  almost  hear 

Mingling  their  deep  tones  with  the  zephyr's  sigh. 

An  echo's  voice  in  sportive  mimic  cry 
Comes  down  the  hill  to  rouse  the  feeding  deer. 
Up  through  the  woodland  to  the  mountain's  brow, 

Down  in  the  valley,  o'er  the  sweeping  plains, 
Where  ne'er  hath  been  the  devastating  plow — 

Tis  here,  and  here  alone,  that  Nature  reigns ; 
And  when  we  come,  our  stubborn  knee  must  bow 

And  bend  to  her  within  her  woody  fanes. 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA,  1864. 

MARY1 

BY  JOEL  C.  HARRIS 

Though  other  lips  shall  tell  their  love 

In  softer  strains  than  mine, 
Though  prouder  forms  deceitful  bend 

And  bow  at  Cupid's  shrine — 
Turn,  Mary,  from  their  empty  vows 

To  one  whose  heart  is  thine. 

Like  echoes  of  the  mermaid's  sigh 

Or  of  the  ocean's  swell, 
Which  poets  say  forever  hide 

Within  the  bright  sea  shell, 
Thy  image  in  my  inmost  heart 

Will  ever  fondly  dwell. 

Thou  art  my  thoughts  each  weary  day, 

My  dreaming  all  the  night, 
And  still  I  see  thy  gentle  smile 

And  hear  thy  footstep  light — 
But  tears  are  gathering  in  my  eyes ; 

I  cannot  see  to  write. 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA. 

lThe  Countryman,  March  13,  1866. 


58  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

From  his  last  year's  prose  contributions  two  are  given. 
"Christmas"  bespeaks  his  love  of  children  and  anticipates 
his  Chapter  VIII.,  "Something  about  Sandy  Claus,"  in  "On 
the  Plantation."1  And  in  this  connection  it  will  be  remem 
bered  how  he  would  never  tell  tales  to  his  children  nor  to 
any  others,  because  then  they  would  look  up  to  him,  he  said, 
and  he  could  no  longer  be  as  he  wished  always  to  be — one 
of  them.2  "Macaria"  is  at  once  the  best  evidence  found  of 
his  contact  with  contemporary  literature  and  of  his  own 
best  writing  for  The  Countryman.  It  was  his  first  effort  at 
critical  literary  review,  which  was  in  the  days  of  his  ma 
turity  to  be  a  regular  feature  of  his  editorial  work  for  the 
Atlanta  Constitution? 

CHRISTMAS3 

There  is  an  invisible  chain  connecting  all  my  ideas  of 
happiness  with  Christmas.  It  is  with  a  kind  of  religious 
awe,  a  half-subdued  feeling  of  enthusiasm,  that  I  look  for 
ward  to  each  successive  return  of  the  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  our  Saviour. 

From  time  immemorial  the  return  of  his  birth  nights  has 
been  celebrated  with  a  succession  of  holidays  and  festivals. 
In  the  olden  times  the  yule  log  was  burned  amid  dancing 
and  joy,  the  maidens  were  crowned  with  myrtle  and  holly, 
the  branch  of  mistletoe  was  hung  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  all  gave  themselves  up  to  innocent  mirth. 

With  the  idea  of  Christmas  comes  a  vision  of  the  bright- 
eyed  St.  Nicholas — or  Santa  Claus,  as  the  children  call  him 
— that  merry  old  sprite  with  his  tiny  reindeer  and  toy  sleigh. 
How  he  loves  the  children !  What  trouble  he  takes  to  bring 
them  good  things  from  his  ice-bound  home !  And  the  chil 
dren,  how  they  dream  of  the  good  things  in  store  for  them ! 

aSee  Harris's  contributions  to  the  Atlanta  Constitution  in  Part  II. 

2Oral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 

3 The  Countryman,  February  20,  1866. 


Biographical  59 

What  a  pity  that  children  ever  grow  up  to  be  men  and 
women !  What  a  pity  that  reason  tears  to  pieces  the  time- 
honored  legend  of  St.  Nicholas !  As  for  me,  I  have  always 
held  on  to  my  childish  belief  in  the  existence  of  the  good 
old  elf  with  a  tenacity  that  defied  reason.  I  would  not  give 
up  that  one  belief  for  all  the  philosophy  in  the  world.  Noth 
ing  can  shake  it.  Why,  my  grandmother  used  to  hang  up 
her  stocking  with  my  own  and  say  that  it  was  the  only  way 
she  could  call  up  the  faces  of  her  dead  children  and  re 
membrances  of  her  dear  friends.  And  when  we  rose  and 
found  the  good  things  awaiting  us  and  the  marks  upon  the 
back  of  the  chimney,  where  good  old  Santa  Claus  came 
down  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  night,  it  was  hard  to  tell 
which  was  the  most  overjoyed,  my  grandmother  or  myself. 

It  quite  awed  my  childish  fancy,  I  confess,  to  see  the 
evidence  of  St.  Nicholas  upon  the  chimney  back,  and  it  is 
no  wonder  that  this  fact  quite  overcame  all  my  doubts.  I 
like  to  see  grown-up  people  relying  upon  these  traditions  of 
their  childhood.  It  is  evidence  that  at  least  a  portion  of 
their  hearts  remains  untainted  and  uncorrupted  by  the 
world.  Such  an  example  of  childish  faith  is  worth  all  the 
cold  reasoning  of  philosophy.  Not  only  do  I  still  retain  my 
belief  in  the  legend  of  St.  Nicholas,  but  I  go  further.  I 
have,  in  my  own  mind,  personified  Santa  Claus  with  Christ 
himself;  and  who  will  dare  to  impeach  my  religion?  It  is 
not  difficult,  I  opine,  to  imagine  the  form  of  our  Saviour 
descending  upon  earth  at  the  anniversary  of  his  birth  and 
scattering  his  blessings  among  little  children  whom  he  loves. 
It  is  easy  to  imagine,  I  say,  the  form  of  our  Saviour  gliding 
about  from  house  to  house,  the  palace  and  the  cottage, 
through  the  dim  mists  of  midnight,  giving  his  little  lambs  a 
token  that  he  was  near  them,  leaning  over  the  couches  of 
the  infants,  perchance  kissing  them  and  repeating  the  words 
spoken  by  him  one  thousand  years  ago :  "Suffer  the  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not;  for  of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

God  bless  the  little  ones  who  believe  in  Santa  Claus,  and 
a  merry  Christmas  to  them  all !  J.  C.  H. 

December  25,  1865. 


60  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"MACARIA'n 

Several  years  ago  the  author  of  "Macaria,"  Miss  Augusta 
J.  Evans,  of  Mobile,  wrote  "Beulah."  Critics  were  profuse 
in  their  laudations  of  this  work,  some  of  them  going  so  far 
as  to  compare  it  to  "Jane  Eyre."  Their  admiration  of  the 
book  was  well  grounded.  "Beulah"  is,  indeed,  a  work  of 
which  any  author  might  justly  be  proud,  surpassing  many  of 
the  standard  English  and  American  novels.  The  plot  was 
connected,  the  characters  well  supported,  and  the  whole 
story  grand  and  thrilling.  It  being  Miss  Evans's  first  work, 
the  critics  and  the  reading  public  generally  very  naturally 
expected  in  her  next  work  something  better — more  mature, 
if  I  be  allowed  so  to  speak. 

After  a  long  silence  the  distinguished  authoress  again 
condescends  to  favor  her  friends  with  a  work  entitled  "Ma- 
caria ;  or,  The  Altar  of  Sacrifice." 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  not  perused  this  work 
I  wish  to  dissect  several  of  the  more  prominent  chapters  of 
"Macaria."  The  authoress  opens  her  story  with  a  descrip 
tion  of  her  hero,  Russell  Aubrey.  This  character  is  an 
ambitious  youth,  who  has  to  contend  with  the  odium  of  his 
father's  name,  who  died  upon  the  gallows,  as  well  as  several 
minor  difficulties  and  misfortunes.  This  character  is  well 
supported  throughout  the  narrative,  though  the  reader  can 
not  help  thinking  that  all  the  more  refined  and  tender  feel 
ings  of  Aubrey's  nature  are  swallowed  up  in  his  desire  to 
win  in  his  thirst  after  fame.  His  ambition,  in  many  places, 
is  made  to  appear  selfish — that  is,  he  desires  fame  merely  as 
a  vehicle  by  which  to  revenge  himself  upon  those  who  have 
calumniated  his  own  and  his  father's  name.  A  selfish  ambi 
tion  never  accomplishes  any  noble  end.  This  being  known 
to  every  reader,  the  character  of  Russell  Aubrey  appears 
smaller  in  our  estimation  than  otherwise  it  would. 

The  heroine,  Irene  Huntingdon,  is  not  so  well  drawn, 
though  better  supported  as  a  character  than  Aubrey.  Some 
times  she  assimilates  to  Beulah,  and  again  she  is  like  no  one ; 
sometimes  a  mere  woman  with  a  woman's  heart  and  feeling, 
and  sometimes  as  cold  and  calm  as  the 
Pallid  bust  of  Pallas— 

*The  Countryman,  January  24,  1865. 


Biographical  61 

a  living  contradiction  of  herself,  as  well  as  the  contradiction 
of  the  feelings  natural  to  a  woman.  Having  formed  the 
standard  of  right  peculiar  to  her  peculiarities,  of  course  she 
bases  many  of  her  actions  upon  incorrect  principles.  At  one 
time  she  disobeys  her  father  where  it  was  right  that  she 
should  obey  him.  And,  again,  she  obeys  him  with  a  tenacity 
altogether  unnatural  to  any  person,  where  everything  goes 
to  show  that  his  commands  are  the  result  of  mere  prejudice 
and  malice,  where  every  principle  of  nature  rebels  against 
it,  and  even  where  instinct  and  Holy  Writ  teach  her  that  she 
is  right  and  her  father  wrong.  I  allude  to  her  father's  ha 
tred  of  Russell  Aubrey  and  his  wishes  that  Irene  and  Rus 
sell  should  never  meet,  leaving  marriage  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  They  do  meet,  however,  at  a  ball.  Irene  leaves  the 
ball  to  administer  to  the  sick.  Russell  follows  her  to  the 
the  domiciles  of  "poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt"  and  confesses 
love  for  her.  Although  Irene  adores  him,  she  listens  as 
coolly  as  if  she  were  a  statue  instead  of  a  woman  and, 
when  he  has  done,  tells  him  that  she  is  a  friend  to  him,  but 
henceforth  their  paths  widely  diverge.  This  is  an  unnatural, 
heartless  scene.  About  this  time  the  "clarion  of  war" 
resounds  throughout  the  South.  Russell  Aubrey  organizes 
a  company,  is  chosen  captain,  and  prepares  to  enter  service. 
Irene  learns  the  facts  and  indites  Captain  Aubrey  a  note  to 
the  effect  that  she  wishes  to  see  him.  He  attends  her  sum 
mons,  and  Irene  confesses  her  love  for  him.  If  this  scene 
is  not  indelicate,  it  is  certainly  unwomanly.  Though  she 
confesses  her  love  for  Russell,  she  has  no  idea  of  marrying 
him  and  tells  him  again  that  they  must  occupy  very  different 
spheres  in  life. 

Mr.  Huntingdon,  Irene's  father,  goes  to  war  and  in  one 
of  the  first  battles  gets  killed.  Irene  henceforth  devotes 
her  life  to  administering  to  the  wants  of  the  sick  and 
wounded  soldiers.  Here  occurs  one  of  the  most  beautiful, 
heart-touching  scenes  I  ever  read.  A  sick  youth  who  was 
wounded  in  battle  is  put  under  Irene's  care.  Being  delirious, 
the  boy  imagines  her  to  be  his  mother.  Let  the  reader  pe 
ruse  the  following  extract : 

"  'I  have  not  said  my  prayers  to-night.  Mother,  hold  my 
musket  a  minute/ 


62  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"He  put  out  his  arm  as  if  to  consign  it  to  her  care  and 
folded  his  hands  together. 

:<  'Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name* — 
His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  inaudible  for  some  seconds, 
then  he  paused  as  if  confused.  .  .  . 

'  'Jessie  knows  it  all ;  I  don't/    Then  came,  indistinctly, 

snatches  of  the  infant  prayer  which  had  been  taught  him  at 

his  truckle-bed  in  the  nursery. 

"After  a  short  silence  he  shivered  and  murmured : 

"  'Corporal  of  the  guard,  post  No.  9 !     Mother,  it  is  cold 

standing  guard  to-night,  but  the  relief  will  soon  be  round. 

Standing  guard — mother* — 

"His  eyes  wandered  around  the  dim  room,  then  slowly 

closed  as  he  fell  into  sleep  that  knows  no  earthly  waking." 

Such  scenes  as  the  above  find  an  echo  in  every  bosom — 
so  natural,  so  touching!  It  does  honor  to  the  feelings  of 
Miss  Evans's  heart. 

While  Irene  is  engaged  in  attending  the  wants  of  the  sick 
soldiers  Russell  Aubrey  is  mortally  wounded.  As  soon  as 
she  hears  of  his  misfortune  Irene  hastens  to  him,  and  he  dies 
with  her  arms  about  him.  Why  did  not  Miss  Evans  cause 
Russell  to  marry  Irene  on  his  deathbed?  There  is  some 
thing  so  solemn  and  impressive  in  a  deathbed  marriage ! 

The  character  of  Electra  Grey  is  by  far  the  best  drawn 
in  Miss  Evans's  book,  though,  when  compared  with  "Beu- 
lah,"  it  is  but  a  feeble  imitation.  Why  do  Miss  Evans's 
characters  deal  so  much  in  the  doctrine  of  the  mystics? 

That  "Macaria"  is  a  great  novel  I  will  not  pretend  to 
deny;  but  that  it  is  not  at  all  comparable  with  "Beulah" 
every  candid  reader  will  admit.  "Macaria"  will  never  be  a 
popular  novel,  for  the  reason  that  the  mass  of  readers  will 
not  understand  her  classical  allusions ;  and  but  few,  I  ween, 
will  define  with  her  the  aesthetics  of  politics  and  religion. 
If  Miss  Evans  is  not  actually  pedantic,  she  is  certainly  ob 
scure.  For  instance,  how  many  readers  will  understand 
such  language  as  the  following?  "Perish  the  microcosm  in 
the  limitless  macrocosm  and  sink  the  feeble  earthly  segre 
gate  in  the  boundless,  rushing,  choral  aggregation !"  And 
even  when  the  reader  has  found  the  meaning  of  the  "hard 


Biographical  63 

words,"  their  connection  with  what  goes  before  is  so  in 
distinctly  seen  he  does  not  know  how  to  apply  the  sentences. 

Miss  Evans  has  been  compared  to  Madame  de  Stae'l. 
Though  she  says  herself  that  perhaps  once  in  a  thousand 
years  a  Corinne  might  be  found,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  will 
ever  be  found  in  one  day.  And  I  agree  with  her.  If  Co 
rinne  ever  visits  us,  it  will  be  in  her  imbecility. 

The  authoress  of  "Macaria,"  through  her  characters,  ad 
vances  some  very  specious  points  with  regard  to  our  future 
independence.  She  advances  the  idea  that  either  slavery  or 
home  manufactures  should  be  done  away  with  and  is  an 
advocate  of  free  trade.  This  would  be  glorious.  Dependent 
independence!  Miss  Evans  looks  aghast  at  what  she  terms 
the  "gross  utilitarianism"  of  the  age.  She  forgets  that  even 
religion  is  utilitarian,  and  that  instead  of  our  people  being 
gross  utilitarians  they  are  only  in  favor  of  utile  cum  dulce 
(the  useful  with  the  agreeable).  Everything  is  liable  to 
progress,  and  utilitarianism  is  only  another  word  for  im 
provement.  I  am  not  in  favor  of  that  improvement  which 
would  subject  the  "falls  of  Niagara  to  turning  a  mill";  but 
I  am  for  the  utile  cum  dulce,  and  God  grant  that  our  people 
may  never  make  true  that  proverb  which  has  been  such  a 
curse  to  Italy,  "Dolce  far  niente" ! 

Miss  Evans's  political  disquisitions  are  just  what  one 
would  expect  of  a  woman — weak  and  diffuse.  And  if  she 
does  not  pointedly  suggest  an  oligarchy,  she  is  certainly  in 
favor  of  an  aristocracy.  I  have  always  thought  a  woman's 
opinions  and  suggestions  with  regard  to  politics  were  super 
fluous,  that  it  savored  too  much  of  the  Puritan  strong- 
minded  females.  Let  women,  instead  of  giving  their  opin 
ions  in  State  affairs,  personally  instill  correct  principles  into 
the  minds  of  their  sons,  whom  they  may  "raise  up  to  the 
councils  of  the  nation."  J.  C.  H. 

Mr.  Turner  found  comfort  in  the  progress  that  he  ob 
served  in  the  literary  efforts  of  his  apprentice.  In  the 
words  last  quoted  from  him,  giving  an  account  of  his  efforts 
in  behalf  of  Southern  literature,  we  read  the  realization  of 
the  fact  that  his  own  efforts  have  reached  their  limits.  He 
has  done  what  he  could  and  must  leave  to  others  the  task  at 


64  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

which  he  has  labored.  Joel  Harris  was  one  to  whom  he 
looked  as  a  future  writer  for  the  South.  It  now  seems  pro 
phetic  when  he  laid  one  hand  on  a  promising  young  girl1 
and  the  other  on  Harris,  saying  to  them :  "You  will  do  the 
writing  for  the  South  that  I  shall  be  unable  to  do."  Flip 
pant  and  insignificant  to  some  may  seem  the  young  man's 
answer  to  the  question  that  came  a  little  later  from  the  young 
lady,  but  others  may  read  therein  the  modesty  and  humor 
characteristic  of  the  future  author.  "What  are  you  going 
to  write  about,  Joe,"  she  asked.  "Bumblebees  and  jay 
birds,"  he  seemed  to  mumble. 

Harris  responded  with  all  the  fire  of  youth  to  the  inspiring 
call  of  his  teacher.  He  became  exceedingly  zealous  in  the 
work  of  building  up  a  Southern  literature.  He,  too,  decried 
the  dependence  of  nearly  all  writers  and  publishers  in  the 
South  and  their  poor  imitation  of  "Yankee  standards."  As 
the  weeks  passed  he  marked  the  content  and  spirit  of  the 
numerous  publications  that  came  to  The  Countryman  office. 
Book  reviews,  and  occasionally  new  books  themselves,  thus 
reached  him.  His  review  of  "Macaria"  has  been  given. 
With  strong  feeling  he  opens  a,  brief  review  of  Griswold's 
"Poe"  in  these  words :  "One  of  the  most  miserably  gotten- 
up  affairs,  perhaps,  that  ever  intruded  itself  upon  the  read 
ing  public  of  America  was  Griswold's  'Biography  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe/  affixed  to  the  works  of  that  lamented  genius." 
He  concludes  :  "Upon  the  whole,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the 
writing  of  Poe's  biography  fell  into  the  hands  of  Griswold; 
and  I  hope  even  yet  that  we  may  have  an  edition  of  the 
works  of  that  great  genius  honorable  alike  to  his  memory 
and  to  us,  an  honest  people. — J.  C.  H.2  Thus  it  was,  with 
some  acquaintance  of  his  own  with  the  periodicals  and  books 

1Mrs.  B.  W.  Hunt  (nee  Louise  Prudden),  of  Eatonton,  who  tells 
this  incident. 

zThe  Countryman,  February  13,  1866. 


Biographical  65 

issued  from  the  American  press,  that  he  began  to  write  lit 
erary  criticisms  along  with  the  editor.  And  the  creative 
impulse  also  had  moved  him,  so  that  he  was  no  longer  merely 
devil,  but  also  regular  contributor  to  the  plantation  paper. 
Nor  was  there  space  sufficient  in  this  paper  for  him  to  do  all 
that  he  had  an  ambition  to  attempt  for  Southern  literature. 
His  vision  was  extended,  and,  with  the  realization  of  his 
growing  powers,  he  began  to  offer  contributions  to  other 
publications,  as  seen  in  the  following  letters  i1 

COUNTRYMAN  OFFICE, 
TURN  WOLD  (NEAR  EATONTON),  GEORGIA, 

June  2,  1863. 
Editors  Commonwealth. 

Sirs:  I  send  you  an  article  for  the  Commonwealth,  which, 
if  you  see  fit,  publish;  otherwise  burn  it  up.  On  no  ac 
count  let  my  name  be  known. 

Hoping  that  you  may  soon  receive  a  thousand  reams  of 
nice  paper  (which  is  the  best  wish  that  any  newspaper  can 
receive  nowadays),  I  remain, 

Your  friend,  J.  C.  HARRIS. 

P.  S. — I  have  an  original  tale  for  the  Commonwealth  en 
titled  "A  Night's  Hunt."  Must  I  send  it?  J.  C.  HARRIS. 

EATONTON,  GEORGIA,  October  25. 

Editor  Illustrated  Mercury.2 

I  am  anxious  for  the  Mercury  to  succeed,  as  I  believe  it  is 
the  only  publication  extant  in  the  South,  with  the  exception 
of  The  Countryman,  which  does  not  model  itself  after  the 
vile  publications  of  the  North — as,  for  instance,  the  Farm 
and  Fireside.  I  am  afraid  also  that  our  Southern  writers 
are  giving  way  to  the  wholesale  imitation  of  Yankee  authors, 
especially  the  younger  portion  of  those  afflicted  with  cacoc- 
thes  scribendi.  .  .  .  [He  will  write  articles  to  help  the 

1Letters  found  among  papers  in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Harris. 
There  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  he  sent  verses  and  prose  pieces 
to  several  Southern  papers  whose  files  are  not  available. 

"Probably  published  at  Raleigh,  North  Carolina. 

5 


66  The  Life  of  Joel  C  handler  Harris 

Mercury.}     I  hope  you  may  succeed  in  all  your  endeavors 
to  establish  an  undented  Southern  literature. 

JOEL  C.  HARRIS. 

But  had  Harris  never  gotten  beyond  this  sectional  animosi 
ty,  his  literary  work  would  have  been  dwarfed.  Had  he  nev 
er  come  to  feel  an  inspiration  deeper  than  sectional  jealousy, 
his  work  would  have  been  ignoble.  Had  Mr.  Turner  gone 
no  further  than  to  implant  sectional  bitterness  in  the  writing 
of  his  pupil,  we  should  be  very  ungrateful  to  him.  How 
ever,  the  unpleasant  and  unworthy  in  his  sectional  feeling 
was,  of  course,  soon  to  pass  away.  It  took  but  a  short  time 
for  the  brilliant  young  man  to  find  himself.  Nor  in  doing  so 
was  it  necessary  for  him  to  turn  his  back  upon  his  teacher, 
who  was  impetuous,  but  wise  withal.  In  the  first  fire  of  his 
youth  he  had  been  moved  too  much  merely  by  the  slave 
holder's  hatred  for  the  Yankee  in  Mr.  Turner's  declarations 
for  Southern  literature.  But  Mr.  Turner  had,  underneath 
his  bitterness,  proclaimed  the  fundamental  principle  upon 
which  this  literature  must  be  created.  And  before  Uncle 
Remus  was  able  to  become  a  citizen  of  the  literary  world, 
Mr.  Harris  had  penetrated  the  thin  surface  of  hatred  and 
pride  veiling  Mr.  Turner's  thought  to  grasp  this  underlying 
principle.  On  December  22,  1862,  one  week  after  the  young 
apprentice  had  made  his  first  contribution  to  The  Country 
man,  Mr.  Turner  published  the  following  editorial : 

I  do  emphatically  wish  us  to  have  a  Southern  literature. 
And  prominent  in  our  books  I  wish  the  negro  placed.  The 
literature  of  any  country  should  be  a  true  reflex  in  letters  of 
the  manners,  customs,  institutions,  and  local  scenery  of  that 
country.  Hence  when  our  authors  write  I  don't  believe 
they  ought  to  run  off  to  Greece,  Rome,  the  Crusades,  Eng 
land,  or  France  for  things  for  their  pens.  Let  them  write 
about  things  at  home  and  around  them.  We  may  talk  about 
Southern  literature  until  doomsday ;  but  so  long  as  every 
thing  we  write  is  based  upon  English  and  Yankee  models, 


Biographical  67 

so  long  we  shall  have  no  Southern  literature.  Our  books 
and  journals  should  be  the  outgrowth  of  the  vigorous,  manly 
Southern  mind  and  habit  of  thought. 

Here,  indeed,  was  outlined  distinctly  and  completely  Har 
ris's  great  literary  work.  How  often  in  conversation  he 
heard  these  same  convictions  expressed  by  the  editor  we 
can  only  imagine.  It  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that  when  he  had 
made  his  home  in  Forsyth  and  again  in  Savannah  and  final 
ly  in  Atlanta,  following  in  the  steps  of  Mr.  Turner  as  an 
editor,  he  reviewed  again  and  again  the  file  of  The  Country 
man  that  he  had  carefully  and  affectionately  preserved. 
And  this  earliest  editorial  on  Southern  literature  must  have 
remained  firm  in  his  memory  and  active  in  his  thought,  for 
again  and  again  the  same  doctrine  echoes  through  his  own 
editorials  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution.1  And  not  the  Uncle 
Remus  matter  alone,  but  also  practically  everything  that  he 
wrote  after  his  maturity,  bespeaks  its  source.  Indeed,  his 
material  was  drawn  almost  wholly  from  his  own  observation 
of  life  in  and  near  old  Putnam  County.2  Rockville,8  Shady 
Dale,  and  Hillsborough,  for  instance,  appear  on  the  map,  so 
named,  to-day;  and  it  is  easy  to  identify  Halcyondale  and 
many  other  places  with  only  their  fanciful  names  to  ob 
scure  them.  Likewise  his  characters  often  bear  their  true 
names — "Deomotari"  ("On  the  Plantation"),  for  example — 
while  others  are  thinly  veiled.  His  fiction  everywhere  is 
true  interpretation.  Of  most  of  his  books  Harris  might 
have  written  as  he  did  of  "Plantation  Pageants" :  "Glancing 


1For  example,  November  30,  1879,  "Literature  in  the  South,"  and 
January  25,  1880,  "Provinciality  in  Literature."  See  later  quotations, 
and  compare  March  4,  1880,  review  of  "The  Georgians,  in  Part  II. 

3See  Part  II.  and  quotation  from  J.  T.  Manry,  page  87. 

"This  name  has  lately  been  usurped  by  another  community  near  to 
the  earlier  one. 


68  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

back  over  its  pages,  it  seems  to  be  but  a  patchwork  of  mem 
ories  and  fancies,  a  confused  dream  of  old  times."1 

It  is  the  crowning  glory  of  Mr.  Turner's  association  with 
Harris  to  have  implanted  in  the  mind  of  the  young  writer 
the  principle  of  literature  that  became  the  implicit  guide  of 
his  genius,  leading  it  in  later  years  to  its  own  splendid  ex 
pression. 

1  "Plantation  Pageants,"  the  closing  paragraph. 


INFLUENCES  that  bore  upon  Harris  at  Eatonton  and 
at  Turnwold  have  been  clearly  discovered.  In  Eaton- 
ton  his  love  of  nature  had  manifested  itself;  and,  de 
spite  the  humble  circumstances  under  which  he  was  born, 
his  intellectual  life  had  been  awakened  before  he  had 
reached  his  teens.  On  the  plantation  he  learned  negroes, 
animals,  and  children,  especially  in  their  association.  By 
precept  and  example  Mr.  Turner  taught  him  to  write, 
through  his  library  taught  him  to  read  with  profit,  and  by 
throwing  open  to  him  the  columns  of  The  Countryman 
stimulated  his  efforts  at  original  composition.  Mr.  Turner 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  point  out  to  him  the  literary  way  that 
he  should  take.  But  it  was  Harris's  own  genius  that  deter 
mined  what  should  be  the  significance  of  his  journey.  Mr. 
Turner  wrote  nothing  of  importance  for  publication  after 
the  downfall  of  the  Confederacy,  which  drew  from  him  a 
sad  farewell  to  his  readers  in  the  last  issue  of  The  Country 
man,1  and  two  years  later  (1868)  he  died  broken-hearted 
in  poverty.  Harris  had  left  Turnwold  to  enter  upon  a  dec 
ade  of  hard  work  and  quiet  study,  after  which — accidental 
ly,  he  says,2  but  naturally  and  distinctively — he  took  his 
place  among  men  of  letters. 

The  Countryman  ceased  after  the  issue  of  May  8,  1866. 
Joe  Harris  was  eighteen  years  old,  and  his  apprenticeship  as 

lwThe  Editor's  Adieu,"  May  8,  1866.  Contributions  to  Scott's 
Monthly  later. 

*Lipt>incott's  Monthly  Magazine,  April,  1866  (Vol.  XXXVII.,  pages 
417-420),  "An  Accidental  Author."  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  (Literary 
autobiography.) 

(69) 


70  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

typesetter  was  completed.  He  must  now  break  more  en 
tirely  away  from  home  and  among  strangers  try  his  ability. 
Two  years  earlier  he  had  been  anticipating  removal  from 
Turnwold.  His  friend  Williams  had  at  that  time  replied  to 
a  letter  from  him  as  follows : 

COLUMBUS,  GEORGIA,  February  25,  1864. 

Yours  dated  February  I4th.  .  .  .  You  say  you  want 
work  down  here.  I  should  be  delighted  if  you  would  come, 
as  I  am  bored  to  death  with  the  society  with  which  I  am 
compelled  to  associate.  The  boys  are  clever  (in  the  Ameri 
can  sense  of  the  word)  enough,  but,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
stupid  woodenheads.  .  .  .  [No  opening  just  then.]  You 
can  get  a  "sit"  in  Macon,  no  doubt;  but  you  will  have  to 
work,  work  all  the  time,  day  and  night,  and  you  will  soon 
get  tired  of  it.  .  .  .  I  remain 

Truly  your  friend,  F.  W.1 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  circumstances,  it  was  to 
Macon  that  Harris  went  when  the  occasion  for  a  change  of 
his  residence  now  came.  He  was  employed  as  typesetter  for 
the  Macon  Telegraph  for  three  or  four  months.  His  card 
of  membership  in  the  printers'  union  is  preserved  and  reads : 

MACON  TYPOGRAPHICAL  UNION,  No.  64, 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  August  7,  1866. 

Mr.  J.  C.  Harris  has  paid  dues  and  fines  to  date  and  is 
entitled  to  work  in  any  fair  office  until  November  i,  1866, 
when  this  permit  must  be  renewed. 

($2.50.)  JAMES  H.  SMITH,  Rec.  Sec. 

Nothing  is  known  of  any  literary  work  on  his  part  during 
these  months.  But  Macon  was  the  home  of  Sidney  Lanier, 
and  it  is  quite  certain  that  Harris  made  use  of  his  opportu 
nity  to  learn  at  first  hand  something  of  this  rising  figure 
among  Southern  literary  men.  In  a  letter  of  April,  1868,  he 
wrote : 

1W.  F.  Williams.    Letter  in  Mr.  Harris's  scrapbook. 


Biographical  71 

Sidney  and  Clifford  Lanier  are  brothers,  born  and  raised 
in  Macon,  Georgia.  .  .  .  [Sidney]  is  the  most  accom 
plished  flute  player  in  America.  There  is  something  weird 
and  mysterious,  ravishing  and  entrancing  in  his  manner  of 
playing.  It  is  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to  describe  it  to 
you.  One  of  his  descriptions  of  flute-playing  in  "Tiger 
Lilies"  comes  near  telling  it,  but  you  should  hear  him  to 
appreciate.  He  is  a  good,  modest  young  man,  charming  in 
manner.1 

That  Harris  was  reading  and  alert  as  to  literary  affairs  is 
shown  by  the  presence  to-day  among  his  books  of  the  fourth 
number  of  the  first  volume  of  the  Crescent  Monthly  (Octo 
ber,  1866),  marked :  "J.  C.  Harris,  Telegraph  Office,  Macon, 
Ga."  Within  a  month  or  two  he  had  secured  a  position  as 
secretary  to  Mr.  Evelyn,  editor  of  the  magazine  just  men 
tioned.  The  Crescent  Monthly  was  published  by  William 
Evelyn  &  Co.,  New  Orleans  (William  B.  Smith  &  Co., 
Raleigh,  North  Carolina)  as  a  "magazine  of  literature, 
science,  art,  and  society,  .  .  .  gotten  up  in  the  style  of 
the  London  Society  Magazine."  The  editor  was  an  Eng 
lishman,  an  eccentric  character,  whom  Harris  did  not  learn 
to  love.  But  as  his  secretary  the  young  man  came  to  have 
more  than  the  ordinary  reader's  interest  in  the  contributors, 
who  were  prominent  literary  figures — L.  Q.  C.  Lamar,  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne,  Henry  Timrod,  John  Esten  Cooke,  Augus 
ta  Evans.  He  was,  indeed,  now  occupying  something  of  an 
official  position  in  a  literary  world.  It  was  here  that  he 
came  into  pleasant  association  with  H.  L.  Flash,  whose 
"nervous  condensation"  in  style  he  had  earlier  learned  to 
admire.2  His  own  writing,  too,  was  continued,  verses  being 
published  often  anonymously  in  the  New  Orleans  papers.3 
The  credit  for  some  of  his  best  work,  patiently  done,  was 

aCharles  A.  Pilsbury,  in  (Southern)  Home  Journal. 

2See  page  50. 

"Charles  A.  Pilsbury,  as  above. 


72  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

stolen  from  him  by  another  man,  according  to  Sam  Small.1 
For  the  first  day  of  the  new  year  1867  he  had  prepared  the 
following  stanzas,  which  appeared  in  the  New  Orleans  Sun 
day  Times: 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW2 

I 
Clasp  hands  with  those  who  are  going, 

Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 
For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

ii 
A  shadow  lies  black  on  the  water, 

A  silence  hangs  over  the  hill, 
And  the  echo  comes  fainter  and  shorter 

From  the  river  that  runs  by  the  mill. 

in 
Greet  the  New  Year  with  music  and  laughter, 

Let  the  Old  shrink  away  with  a  tear ! 
But  we  shall  remember  hereafter 

The  many  who  die  with  the  year. 

IV 

Aye !  we  shall  regret  and  remember 

Mary  and  Maud  and  Irene, 
Though  the  swift- falling  snow  of  December 

Lies  over  them  now  as  a  screen  ; 

v 
And  the  alternate  sunshine  and  shadow 

Sweep  over  their  graves  with  a  thrill — 
Irene  lies  asleep  in  the  meadow 

And  Mary  and  Maud  on  the  hill. 

VI 

Clasp  hands  with  those  who  are  going, 
Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 

Atlanta  Constitution,  April  20,  1879. 

2New  Orleans  Sunday  Times,  January  i,  1867. 


Biographical  73 

For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

These  lines  were  revised  and  extended  into  ten  stanzas  for 
the  Savannah  Morning  News  January  i,  1874,*  and  pub 
lished  again  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution  January  i,  1878. 
He  first  wrote  for  The  Countryman  on  this  theme,  "Mid 
night,  December  31,  i865/'2 

Another  poem  was  published  in  the  Times  shortly  after 
the  above: 

THE  SEA  WIND 

O  sweet  south  wind !    O  soft  south  wind ! 

O  wind  from  off  the  sea ! 
When  you  blow  to  the  inland  ports  of  home, 

Kiss  my  love  for  me. 

And  when  you  have  kissed  her,  sweet  south  wind, 

Tell  her  I  never  forget ; 
For  the  pale  white  mists  of  parting  tears 

Are  floating  round  me  yet. 

Tell  her  I  sit  all  day  and  dream 

Of  the  joys  that  time  may  bring, 
Till  the  old  love  poems  afloat  in  my  heart 

Meet  together  and  sing. 

And  the  tune,  O  wind,  that  they  sing  and  ring 

(With  a  burst  of  passionate  rhyme) 
Is  "The  Lover's  Prayer,"  a  sweet,  sad  air, 

A  song  of  the  olden  time. 

Touch  her  lips  lightly,  sweet  south  wind, 

As  I  should  were  I  there, 
And  dry  up  the  tears  in  her  violet  eyes 

And  play  with  her  purple  hair. 


'See  page  107.       2See  Part  II. 


74  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

O  soft  south  wind!    O  sweet  south  wind! 

O  wind  from  off  the  sea ! 
When  you  blow  to  the  inland  ports  of  home, 

Kiss  my  love  for  me. 

And  the  following  verses,  written  about  the  same  time, 
should  be  compared  with  "Katie,"  by  Timrod  (d.  1867)  : 

AGNES1 

i 
She  has  a  tender,  winning  way 

And  walks  the  earth  with  gentle  grace, 
And  roses  with  the  lily  play 

Amid  the  beauties  of  her  face. 

ii 
Whene'er  she  tunes  her  voice  to  sing, 

The  song  birds  list  with  anxious  looks ; 
For  it  combines  the  notes  of  spring 

With  all  the  music  of  the  brooks. 

in 
Her  merry  laughter,  soft  and  low, 

Is  as  the  chimes  of  silver  bells, 
That,  like  sweet  anthems,  float  and  flow 

Through  woodland  groves  and  bosky  dells. 

IV 

And  when  the  violets  see  her  eyes, 

They  flush  and  glow  with  love  and  shame ; 

They  meekly  droop  with  sad  surprise, 
As  though  unworthy  of  the  name. 

v 

But  still  they  bloom  where'er  she  throws 
Her  dainty  glance  and  smiles  so  sweet, 

And  e'en  amid  stern  winter's  snows 
The  daisies  spring  beneath  her  feet.2 

Reproduced,  along  with  the  two  preceding  poems,  by  Davidson 
in  his  "Living  Writers  of  the  South"  and  probably  published  first  in 
a  New  Orleans  paper,  1867. 

2Timrod :  "And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet." 


Biographical  73 

VI 

She  wears  a  crown  of  purity, 

Full  set  with  woman's  brightest  gem, 

A  wreath  of  maiden  modesty, 
And  virtue  is  the  diadem. 

VII 

And  when  the  pansies  bloom  again 
And  spring  and  summer  intertwine, 

Great  joys  will  fall  on  me  like  rain, 
For  she  will  be  forever  mine ! 

For  six  months  or  more  Harris's  intellectual  growth  was 
broadened  and  deepened  and  his  talent  cultivated  through  his 
literary  associations  in  New  Orleans.  Falling  sick  in  May, 
1867,  he  left  for  his  home  in  Eatonton.  Soon  afterwards 
Mr.  Evelyn  gave  up  his  publication  and  returned  to  England. 

On  his  way  back  to  Georgia — perhaps  in  Macon,  Georgia 
— Mr.  Harris  met  with  Mr.  J.  P.  Harrison,  who  had  been 
for  a  while  his  genial  associate  in  the  old  Countryman  office. 
Mr.  Harrison  had  married  and  become  editor  of  a  weekly 
newspaper  at  Forsyth,  Georgia.  He  was  now  happy  to  se 
cure  a  promise  from  the  sometime  Countryman's  devil  to 
become  the  Monroe  Advertiser's  devil.  And  during  the 
next  three  years  our  author's  talents  were  developed  under 
uplifting  influences  in  the  town  of  Forsyth,  within  fifty 
miles  of  his  birthplace. 

He  was  now  a  youth  of  nineteen.  Not  stoutly  grown,  red- 
haired,  freckle- faced,  and  of  stammering  speech,  he  was,  as 
ever,  shy  and  reserved  with  strangers.  But  to  his  little  circle 
of  town  chums,  among  whom  he  was  called  "Red  Top,"  he 
contributed  fun  and  sense  that  drew  them  to  him.1  And  his 

1Says  Mr.  H.  H.  Cabaniss,  now  of  Atlanta:  "I  was  an  associate  of 
his  in  Forsyth.  We  passed  many  evenings  together.  In  his  inter 
course  with  other  boys  he  was  bright  and  witty,  just  as  later  in  news 
paper  work.  It  was  in  him,  and  he  just  couldn't  help  it."  (Letter  of 
November  17,  1915.) 


76  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

splendid  mind,  knowledge,  and  literary  predilections  com 
pelled  the  recognition  of  the  most  cultured  people.  Yet 
then,  as  always,  he  was  extremely  modest  and  would  appear 
quite  uncouth  when  any  one  sought  directly  a  show  of  his 
genius.  Illustrative  of  this  element  in  his  nature,  there  is 
still  told  by  certain  elderly  people  in  Forsyth  the  following 
story:  A  sister  of  Mr.  Harrison,  Nora,  was  one  afternoon 
walking  with  Mr.  Harris.  The  heavens  were  hanging  in 
wonderful  beauty  against  the  setting  sun.  Miss  Harrison 
directed  the  young  man's  attention  to  the  view  and  urged 
an  expression  of  his  appreciation.  "Why,"  said  the  elusive 
one,  "I  am  reminded  of  a  dish  of  scrambled  eggs."  The  use 
of  such  earthy  language  was  often  in  later  years  his  modest 
method  of  protecting  his  honest  soul  from  the  approaches 
of  insincerity,  which  he  seemed  to  detect  in  every  departure 
from  simple,  natural,  spontaneous  expression.  Any  refer 
ence  to  his  literary  merits  was  invariably  met  with  a  quick 
reply  at  once  deprecatory  and  decisive.  Throughout  his  life 
he  was  particularly  sensitive  to  sham  and  false  pretense 
abroad  in  the  land,  which  restrained  him,  from  self-asser 
tion. 

Of  course  to  be  merely  a  printer  was  for  Harris  impossi 
ble.  Already,  as  we  have  seen,  his  writing,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  had  reached  considerable  volume.  He  began  at 
once  to  contribute  to  the  Advertiser.  First  there  broke  forth 
from  his  active  and  mischievous  brain  bright  thoughts,  witty 
"personal  notes,"  and  sarcastic  "news  items,"  each  expressed 
in  a  few  succinct  lines  full  of  fun.  These  clever  little  para 
graphs  were  in  direct  line  of  descent  from  the  conundrums, 
puns,  and  smart  sayings  of  The  Countryman's  devil.  Mr. 
H.  H.  Cabaniss,  a  pioneer  newspaper  man  in  Georgia,  who 
lived  during  those  years  in  Forsyth  and  succeeded  Mr.  Har 
rison  as  editor  of  the  Advertiser,  says : 


Biographical  77 

It  was  while  setting  type  at  the  case  that  Harris  would 
run  in  some  of  the  bright  things  dancing  in  his  brain;  and, 
in  my  opinion,  he  thus  originated  the  newspaper  paragraph 
of  wit.  It  was  his  custom  to  have  them  appear  in  a  column 
to  themselves,  usually  in  the  first  column  of  the  editorial 
page.  The  proprietor  of  the  paper  encouraged  him  in  this 
work,  and  it  soon  became  a  feature  of  the  paper.  Fitch  was 
then  editor  of  the  Griffin  Star  and  was  quite  a  character  in 
Georgia  journalism  and  politics.  I  recall  how  Harris  would 
give  him  a  thrust  once  in  a  while. 

It  was  on  the  I2th  of  July,  1868,  that  Mr.  Harris  himself 
wrote  in  a  letter  how  he  thought  he  was  "cut  out  for  a 
paragraphing  journalist/'1  Long  before  he  became  person 
ally  known  to  the  newspaper  men  at  the  State  press  con 
ventions  his  pungent  lines  drew  comment  and  praise  from 
all  sides.  While  he  was  still  with  the  Advertiser  there  was 
hardly  a  paper  in  the  State  that  did  not  repeatedly  turn 
some  pleasantry  upon  "Red  Top"  or  "Sorrel  Top"  Harris.2 
In  the  summer  of  1868  the  Atlanta  Constitution  was  pro 
jected,  and  there  was  an  understanding  that  Harris  should 
have  a  place  on  the  staff.8  However,  he  did  not  at  that 
time  leave  the  Advertiser. 

But  Mr.  Harris  had  an  ambition  to  be  more  than  a  news 
paper  editor.  Force  of  circumstances  alone  was  to  bind  him 
to  the  hack  work  of  journalism  until  his  talent  and  genius 
should  lift  into  literature  his  mere  newspaper  matter.  He 
was  a  serious  student  of  literature.  Magazines  and  books 
were  placed  on  his  table  by  Mr.  Harrison,4  in  whose  home 

Charles  A.  Piisbury,  in  (Southern)  Home  Journal. 

2One  of  Mr.  Harris's  scrapbooks  has  many  clippings  of  these 
newspaper  references  to  him.  Unfortunately,  the  name  of  the  paper 
and  date  of  publication  are  often  lacking.  The  service  of  the  clip 
ping  bureau  was  not  had  until  later. 

8See  quotation  from  J.  T.  Manry,  page  87. 

4Mrs.  G.  A.  Starke,  sister  of  Mr.  Harrison,  in  a  letter  of  March 
19, 


78  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

he  lived,  and  he  had  access  to  the  little  town  library.  There 
is  preserved  in  his  youthful  scrapbook  a  loose  sheet  of  paper 
upon  which,  while  at  Forsyth  or  probably  earlier,  he  indi 
cated  his  conception  of  a  novel  of  "domestic  life  rather  than 
of  adventure" — so  his  note  reads.  Under  "Chapter  I."  there 
appears  the  melancholy  quotation : 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A  spirit  from  on  high.1 

In  personal  letters  quoted  by  Mr.  Charles  A.  Pilsbury 
appear  Mr.  Harris's  literary  visions.  During  1867  he 
"nursed  a  novel  in  his  brain."  On  December  27,  1867,  he 
writes  to  a  friend  from  Forsyth :  "I  shall  probably  turn  my 
attention  wholly  to  prose,  as  it  pays  better.  Shall  try  a 
tale  after  the  new  school  of  English  fiction."  In  February, 
1868,  he  expresses  his  purpose  to  follow  literature  as  a  pro 
fession.  He  has  chosen  prose  and  will  trust  his  impulses  to 
direct  him.  Four  months  later,  still  subordinating  his  ef 
forts  in  poetry  to  his  prose  work,  he  proposes  to  cultivate 
the  tale,  the  essay,  and  the  review,  and  he  is  contemplating 
a  novel.  In  this  letter  of  June  and  in  another  of  October 
of  the  same  year,  1868,  his  ambition  is  suggesting  a  literary 
career  in  a  great  city,  such  as  New  York.  Yet  he  would 
"give  up  ruralizing  with  regret."2 

So  far  as  the  records  can  be  found,  Mr.  Harris's  most 
considerable  accomplishment  in  prose  during  his  residence 
in  Forsyth  (1867-70)  was  perhaps  a  series  of  contributions 
to  the  Advertiser  in  the  nature  of  short  stories  of  fox-hunt 
ing  and  discussions  of  the  different  kinds  of  fox  hounds. 
This  matter  was  not  written  out  with  pen,  but,  as  he  sat  at 
the  printer's  case,  was  set  in  type.  Mrs.  Mary  Cabaniss,  of 

aNothing  further  is  to  be  gotten  from  this  scrap  of  paper. 
2Charles  A.  Pilsbury,  in  (Southern)  Home  Journal 


Biographical  fg 

Forsyth,  says  that  "early  after  he  came  into  the  office  as 
printer's  devil  he  showed  his  ability  in  short-story  writing, 
producing  graphic  descriptions  of  fox  hunts,  etc.,  drawn 
wholly  from  imagination,  but  so  real  that  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  indeed  been  in  the  chase."1  We  now  know,  of  course, 
how  he  had  played  the  part  of  the  fox  in  training  Mr.  Har 
vey  Dennis's  hounds  in  Eatonton,  and  that  he  had  often 
been  in  the  chase  on  the  Putnam  County  plantations ;  and  it 
will  be  recalled  that  The  Countryman,  in  1863-64,  carried  a 
series  of  contributed  articles  from  some  connoisseur  of  fox 
hounds.  Mr.  Harris  again  wrote  of  the  fox  hunt  when  he 
began  publishing  short  stories  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution.2 

However  much  or  little  verse  he  may  have  himself  writ 
ten  at  this  time,  his  interest  in  poetry  was  keen,  and  his 
knowledge  of  contemporary  Southern  poets  was  intimate. 
Mr.  Pilsbury  records  some  expressions  from  him.  When  a 
friend  praised  a  poem  of  his  as  superior  to  any  written  by 
Flash  or  Timrod,  Mr.  Harris  protested : 

Flash  may  not  please  every  one ;  but  there  is  not  that  man 
living  who,  possessing  any  literary  taste,  can  read  some  of 
Timrod's  happier  efforts  and  not  give  him  the  palm  for  be 
ing  the  first  poet  of  the  South.  Poor  Timrod !  He  is  dead 
now,  but  his  name  will  live  while  there  is  true  taste  extant. 
As  a  man  of  the  world  he  was  nothing;  as  a  poet  he  was 
everything.  He  was  a  poet  by  nature  and  culture,  one  of 
the  few  who  sing  for  their  own  edification  and  not  for 
fame;  Philomela  in  the  desert;  and  I  might  pursue  the  fig 
ure  further  and  speak  of  the  heart  against  the  thorn,  for 
poor  Timrod  had  troubles.  But  these  only  made  him  sing 
the  louder. 

1Mrs.  Mary  Cabaniss,  in  written  response  to  inquiry.  The  Adver 
tiser  files  have  been  lost. 

2In  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  December  16,  1877,  appeared  "A 
Georgia  Fox  Hunt,"  which  was  rewritten  for  publication  in  "On  the 
Plantation."  See  Part  II. 


8o  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

Again,  while  at  Forsyth,  Georgia,  April,  1868,  he  wrote  of 
the  Laniers : 

Sidney  and  Clifford  Lanier  are  brothers,  born  and  raised 
in  Macon,  Georgia.  Clifford  is  very  young,  but  promises 
good  things.  Sidney  is  the  cleverest,  as  you  say — in  fact, 
he  is  a  man  of  genius.  His  novel,  "Tiger  Lilies,"  is  original 
and  good.  His  poems,  published  from  time  to  time  in  the 
"Round  Table/'  are  poems — quaint,  unique,  and  character 
istic. 

When  Mr.  J.  W.  Davidson  was  preparing  his  "Living 
Writers  of  the  South,"1  he  sought  the  judgment  of  the 
twenty-year-old  printer  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  famous 
national  poem,  "All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac."  Mr.  Har 
ris  had  been  for  some  time  investigating  the  matter,  and 
there  is  record  of  his  correspondence  upon  the  subject  in 
March,  1868,  with  Dr.  A.  H.  Guernsey,  editor  of  Harper's 
Magazine,  As  a  commentary  on  his  literary  interest  at  this 
time,  his  reply  to  Mr.  Davidson,  dated  June  8,  1868,  is  given 
as  it  was  published  : 

After  a  careful  and  impartial  investigation  of  all  the 
facts  in  my  reach,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs. 
Beers,  and  not  Mr.  Fontaine,  wrote  the  poem  in  question. 

In  your  sketch  of  Lamar  Fontaine,  published  in  January, 
1866,  I  distinctly  remember  that  you  do  not,  except  upon 
the  strength  of  his  own  testimony,  claim  the  poem  for  him; 
but  with  evident  design  you  avoid  saying  that  he  wrote  it. 
My  reasons  for  believing  that  Mr.  Fontaine  is  not  the  author 
of  "All  Quiet"  are  several : 

1.  The  poem  appeared  in  Harper's  Weekly  for  November 
30,  1861,  as  "The  Picket  Guard,"  over  the  initials  of  Mrs. 
Ethel  Beers,  of  New  York. 

2.  It  did  not  make  its  appearance  in  any  Southern  paper 
until  about  April  or  May,  1862. 

^'Living  Writers  of  the  South,"  J.  W.  Davidson.  Carleton,  New 
York,  1869.  Mr.  Harris  prepared  the  index  for  this  book.  See  page 
87. 


Biographical  8l 

3.  It  was  published  as  having  been  found  in  the  pocket  of 
a  dead  soldier  on  the  battle  field.    It  is  more  than  probable 
that  the  dead  soldier  was  a  Federal  and  that  the  poem  had 
been  clipped  from  Harper's. 

4.  I  have  compared  the  poem  in  Harper's  with  the  same 
as  it  first  appeared  in  the  Southern  papers  and  find  the  punc 
tuation  to  be  precisely  the  same. 

5.  Mr.  Fontaine,  so  far  as  I  have  seen,  has  given  else 
where  no  evidence  of  the  powers  displayed  in  that  poem. 
I,  however,  remember  noticing  in  the  Charleston  Courier, 
in  1863  or  1864,  a  "Parodie"  (as  Mr.  L.  F.  had  it)  on  Mrs. 
Norton's  "Bingen  on  the  Rhine,"  which  was  positively  the 
poorest  affair  I  ever  saw.    Mr.  Fontaine  had  just  come  out 
of  a  Federal  prison;  and  some  irresponsible  editor,  in  speak 
ing  of  this  "Parodie,"  remarked  that  the  poet's  Pegasus  had 
probably  worn  his  wings  out  against  the  walls  of  his  North 
ern  dungeon.    .    .    . 

You  probably  know  me  well  enough  to  acquit  me,  in  this 
instance  at  least,  of  the  charge  of  prejudice.  I  am  jealous 
of  Southern  literature;  and  if  I  have  any  partiality  in  the 
matter  at  all,  it  is  in  favor  of  Maj.  Lamar  Fontaine.  I 
should  like  to  claim  this  poem  for  that  gentleman.  I  should 
be  glad  to  claim  it  as  a  specimen  of  Southern  literature. 
But  the  facts  in  the  case  do  not  warrant  it.1 

It  was  in  this  volume  of  Mr.  Davidson's  (New  York, 
1869)  that  the  first  sketch  of  our  author  was  published, 
when  he  was  just  of  age.  We  discover  in  it  grievous  er 
rors,  such  as  occurs  in  the  startling  assertion  that  Mr.  Har 
ris  was  practicing  law.  But,  although  the  sketch  is  not 
wholly  trustworthy,  the  fact  of  importance  is  that  there  was 
at  that  time  any  sketch  at  all  published;  while,  if  no  more, 
we  can  draw  very  substantial  inference  from  Mr.  David 
son's  high  ranking  of  "Chandler  Harris"  among  the  young 

aln  later  years,  according  to  Prof.  C.  Alphonso  Smith,  Mr.  Harris 
came  to  believe  that  Thaddeus  Oliver,  of  Buena  Vista,  Georgia,  was 
the  author  of  this  poem.  See  "Library  of  Southern  Literature" ;  also 
Atlanta  Constitution,  May  19,  1880. 

6 


82  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

writers  that  were  surely  to  become  "men  of  mark  in  let 
ters"  and  from  his  statement  that  Mr.  Harris  was  preparing 
a  work  to  be  entitled  "Gems  of  Southern  Poetry/'  illustra 
tive  poems  from  the  best  Southern  poets  and  biographical 
sketches.1 

Mr.  Davidson  speaks  of  Mr.  Harris  chiefly  as  a  poet, 
comparing  two  of  his  New  Orleans  poems  with  Flash's  and 
Timrod's.2  It  was  about  a  year  later  that  Mr.  Harris  pro 
duced  two  little  poems  that  have  the  genuine  ring.  We  are 
not  surprised  that  a  little  child  was  the  source  of  his  inspi 
ration,  as  we  learn  from  the  following  letter  to  a  sister  of 

Mr.  Harrison : 

FORSYTH,  GEORGIA,  20  June,  1870. 

Dear  Mrs.  Starke:  ...  I  have  been  trying  to  write  a 
few  verses  for  Nora  Belle;  and  I  thought  I  would  finish 
them,  print  them,  and  write  at  the  same  time.  I  find,  how 
ever,  it  is  quite  useless  to  wait  any  longer.  I  have  written 
twenty  different  trifles  for  my  little  sweetheart;  but  none  of 
them  come  up  to  my  standard  of  merit  or  do  justice  to  the 
subject,  and  I  have  destroyed  them  all  in  despair.  The  inspi 
ration — or  whatever  you  may  please  to  call  it — doesn't  come 
to  me  as  usual,  and  I  find  myself  in  that  most  perplexing  of 
positions — namely,  the  desire  to  write  without  the  ability. 
Don't  laugh  at  me,  please.  My  judgment  has  outgrown  my 
power  to  perform,  and  I  dare  say  that  I  shall  never  be  as 
well  pleased  with  anything  I  may  hereafter  write  as  I  was 
with  the  first  doggerel  I  ever  wrote.  .  .  . 

Very  truly  your  friend,  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS.* 

Happily,  the  poet  made  a  twenty-first  trial,  producing  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  little  Nora  Belle  Starke.4  In  a  letter 
from  Savannah,  dated  June  4,  1872,  to  Mrs.  Starke,  Mr. 

aNo  such  work  was  published  by  Harris. 
2See  these  poems  on  pages  72-74,  above. 
8Letter  in  possession  of  Mrs.  G.  A.  Starke,  Atlanta,  Georgia. 
*Miss  Starke  is  now  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  Washington  Semi 
nary,  Atlanta. 


Biographical.  83 

Harris  tells  of  how  the  verses  had  been  copied  from  one  end 
of  the  South  to  the  other  and  how  the  Western  papers  were 
then  taking  them  up.  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  he  says,  con 
sidered  them  "very  fine/'1  As  first  published  in  the  Monroe 
Advertiser,  the  lines  are  here  reproduced  through  the  cour 
tesy  of  Mrs.  Starke: 

NORA  BELLE 

To  the  mother  of  little  Nora  Belle,  the  purity  of  whose  everyday 
life  is  a  grander  poem  than  man  has  ever  yet  written,  I  dedicate  the 
following  unpretending  lines. 

Of  all  the  little  fairies 

That  ever  love  caressed, 
I  know  our  little  darling 

Is  the  brightest  and  the  best. 
O  the  neatest  and  the  sweetest ! 

No  tongue  can  ever  tell 
How  much  of  love  we  lavish 

On  little  Nora  Belle. 

She  cannot  reach  the  roses 

That  grow  about  her  way, 
But  in  her  face  are  flowers 

More  beautiful  than  they; 
And  the  sunlight  falling  round  her 

Glows  with  a  magic  spell, 
Shedding  a  golden  glory 

On  little  Nora  Belle. 

She  is  winsome,  she  is  winning, 

She  is  blithe,  and  she  is  gay, 
And  she  asks  the  wisest  questions 

In  the  most  old-fashioned  way; 
And  the  lilies  in  the  valley 

And  the  daisies  in  the  dell 
Are  not  so  pure  and  tender 

As  little  Nora  Belle. 

1See  letter  to  Mrs.  Starke,  quoted  later,  page  98. 


84  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

For  years  ago  our  Saviour 

Blessed  children  with  a  touch, 
And  still  his  words  are  ringing: 

"My  kingdom  is  of  such." 
Flushed  with  his  holy  meaning, 

They  stand  outside  of  sin ; 
And  with  his  hand  to  guide  them, 

They  may  not  enter  in. 

O  rare  sunshine  and  shadow, 

That  chase  each  other  so, 
That  fall  and  flit  and  flicker 

And  restless  come  and  go ! 
O  winds  from  o'er  the  ocean, 

O  breezes  from  the  dell, 
Bring  nought  but  health  and  pleasure 

To  little  Nora  Belle. 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

This  is  probably  the  best  of  all  his  poetic  efforts.  "A 
Christmas  Regret"  also  was  written  about  this  time,  marked 
by  appropriate  structure,  rhythm,  and  diction : 

A  CHRISTMAS  REGRET1 
TO  NORA  BELLE 

You  were  not  here  that  day 

When  the  Christmas  songs  were  sung, 

And  you  were  ever  so  far  away 
When  New  Year's  bells  were  rung. 

The  music  and  the  dancing  were  fine, 
And  the  children  were  full  of  glee, 

When  they  stood  drawn  up  in  line 
Around  the  Christmas  tree. 

Ah !  the  music  and  the  dancing  were  fine ; 

But  something  was  lacking  there — 
I  missed  the  light  and  the  shine 

Of  a  little  girl's  golden  hair. 

aCopy  supplied  by  Mrs.  Starke. 


Biographical  85 

Every  heart  was  full  of  glee, 

But  my  words  and  smiles  were  few ; 

No  joy  was  there  for  me — 
My  thoughts  were  all  for  you. 

I'd  have  given  all  the  music  so  fine, 
Every  song  that  was  sung,  every  jest, 

For  your  soft  little  cheek  against  mine, 
For  your  dear  little  head  on  my  breast. 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

A  very  full  account  of  Mr.  Harris  in  Forsyth,  based  upon 
personal  recollections,  has  been  secured  from  J.  T.  Manry, 
now  living  in  Louisiana,  who  was  not  only  a  fellow  printer 
in  the  Advertiser  office,  but  was  also  Mr.  Harris's  room 
mate  in  the  home  of  the  editor.  Mr.  Manry  writes : 

On  the  third  day  of  March,  1868, 1  entered  the  Advertiser 
office  as  an  apprentice,  walking  from  my  father's  home,  sev 
en  miles  west.  I  was  met  at  the  office  door  by  Mr.  J.  P. 
Harrison,  then,  and  for  some  years,  editor  and  proprietor  of 
the  paper.  He  soon  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Harris,  who  was 
working,  setting  long-primer  type,  on  a  double  rack,  or  case. 
I  was  carried  immediately  to  his  right,  where  I  was  shown 
the  first  case  of  type  I  had  ever  seen.  I  could  not  help  ob 
serving  Mr.  Harris  closely,  and  now  his  picture  stands  out 
perfectly  before  me.  He  had  the  reddest  hair  I  had  ever 
seen,  I  thought,  and  had  less  to  say  than  any  one  with  whom 
I  have  ever  been  thrown  in  contact.  He  stammered  badly 
in  his  speech,  and  it  was  apparently  an  effort  for  him  to 
meet  a  stranger. 

I  remained  three  years  in  the  office,  being  with  Mr.  Harris 
constantly  both  night  and  day,  as  we  occupied  the  same 
small  room  at  Mr.  J.  P.  Harrison's.  And  I  would  like  to 
say  right  here  that  I  never  knew  of  one  act  of  injustice  com 
mitted  by  Mr.  Harris  during  that  time.  He  was  always  kind 
and  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  others  and  doubly  so  to 
me.  When  he  was  offered  the  position  on  the  Savannah 
News,  he  had  to  make  a  hurried  departure ;  and  he  asked 
me  to  pack  his  trunk  and  express  it  to  him,  as  his  clothes 


86  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

were  then  out  being  washed.  I  recall  the  nice  letter  I 
afterwards  received  from  him,  in  which  he  spoke  of  Colonel 
Thompson  as  "gentle  as  a  morning  zephyr." 

On  entering  the  Advertiser  office  I  had  read  but  one  novel. 
The  question  about  my  reading  came  up  between  Mr.  Harri 
son  and  Mr.  Harris.  I  requested  Mr.  Harris  to  select  such 
books  as  I  should  read  and  subscribed  to  a  circulating  libra 
ry  kept  at  Dr.  Jayne's  drug  store.  I  have  Mr.  Harris  to 
thank  for  what  knowledge  of  books  I  got  for  the  three  years 
I  was  with  him.  He  wrote  me  from  Savannah  to  let  him 
know  of  any  books  that  I  wished;  and,  at  my  request,  he 
sent  me  Josh  Billings's  "Family  Tree." 

When  I  had  been  in  the  office  for  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  Har 
ris  began  to  get  out  a  column  of  news  run  solid  (not  lead 
ed),  that  it  was  my  duty  to  put  in  type.  He  began  to  pub 
lish,  too,  short  witticisms  and  personal  notes,  which  at  once 
attracted  notice.  He  could  say  more  in  a  few  lines  than 
almost  any  other  writer.  He  never  wrote  out  these  items, 
but  set  them  in  type  at  once.  The  fox-hunting  articles, 
signed  "Towaliga,"  were  composed  the  same  way.  I  re 
member  that  I  had  to  correct  from  reading  the  type  all  of 
his  matter.  His  fox-hunting  stories  brought  out  the  virtues 
of  the  different  breeds  of  fox  hounds — the  Birdsong  and 
others.  I  remember  his  telling  me  his  reason  for  the  publi 
cation  of  this  series  of  articles.  He  said  he  believed  that  the 
Monroe  County  people  would  take  more  interest  in  the  pa 
per.  And  they  did. 

It  was  then  the  custom  for  every  county  newspaper  to 
have  a  lengthy  editorial;  but  when  the  readers  found  infor 
mation,  and  a  hearty  laugh  as  well,  in  Harris's  short,  witty, 
occasionally  sarcastic  lines,  the  Advertiser  was  eagerly  read 
and  in  demand.  I  remember  one  of  his  witticisms  about  the 
Kimball  House,  erected  in  Atlanta  near  1870  by  H.  I.  Kim- 
ball  and  R.  B.  Bullock.  It  was  then  probably  the  highest 
building  in  the  State.  Mr.  Harris  referred  to  it  as  the  "Hi 
Kimball."  The  papers  of  the  State  took  up  the  play,  until 
the  hotel  received  immense  free  advertising.  I  have  been 
told  that  Mr.  Kimball  introduced  himself  to  Mr.  Harris  and 
told  him  that  boarding  at  the  Kimball  would  cost  him  noth 
ing,  that  his  bills  should  be  referred  to  H.  I.  Kimball.  I 


Biographical  %7 

have  also  been  told  that  in  the  hotel  office  is  an  engraving, 
"Hi  Kimball  House."  The  presswork  for  the  Monroe  Ad 
vertiser  was  done  entirely  by  Mr.  Harris  I  have  yet  to 
find  his  superior  as  a  pressman.  The  Advertiser _  took  a 
fifty-dollar  prize  at  the  Georgia  State  Fair  as  the  best- 
printed  county  weekly.1  The  press  was  an  old-time  Wash 
ington  hand  press,  and  I  frequently  rolled  the  forms  There 
were  about  five  hundred  subscribers.  I  can  recall  various 
witticisms  of  Mr.  Harris  as  the  different  post  offices  were 
called.  When  Culloden,  for  instance,  was  called,  he  would 
say:  "The  field  of  Culloden  rises  red  in  my  sight." 

The  first  literary  work  that  he  did,  to  my  knowledge,  was 
in  preparing  the  index  for  "Living  Writers  of  the  South. 
I  cannot  just  now  recall  the  author  [See  page  80]  of  the 
book,  though  I  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  his  son  Julian  some  two 
years  ago.  I  presume  you  have  read  his  "Aunt  Minerva 
Ann."  I  can  name  nearly  every  one  of  the  characters  as 
they  were  taken  in  Forsyth,  where  the  scene  is  laid.  There 
is  a  correct  portrayal  of  the  old  Advertiser  office  as  I  knew 
it  The  rose  hedge  is  on  the  Indian  Springs  road,  about  one 
mile  from  Forsyth.  The  lane  was  covered  with  the  Chero 
kee  rose  for  a  long  distance.  This  is  where  the  Cosset  boys 
had  the  fight.  I  have  the  margins  of  the  book  scribbled  all 
over  The  Samantha  character  is  Sallie  Watkins,  who  was 
cook  in  the  Harrison  home.  Two  years  ago,  after  learning 
that  I  had  mentioned  her  in  a  newspaper  article,  she  sent  me 
word  that  she  was  still  alive.2 

Mr.  Harris  was  paid,  I  think,  only  forty  dollars  a  month 
for  his  services  to  the  Advertiser.  As  to  the  price  Colonel 
Thompson  was  to  pay  him  on  the  Morning  News  staff,  I  dp 
not  know.  But  I  do  know  that  he  was  to  have  had  a  posi 
tion  on  the  Atlanta  Constitution  when  it  should  be  estab 
lished.  Mr.  J.  P.  Harrison,  S.  F.  Fitch,  of  Griffin,  Cary  W. 
Stiles,  of  Albany,  and  the  editor  of  the  Americus  Recorder 
were  present  at  Indian  Springs,  where  the  establishment  of 
the  Constitution  was  planned.  I  carried  from  the  post  office 

Recall  the  neat  appearance  of  The  Countryman,  page  44. 
2As  to  Harris's  taking  his  characters  and  incidents  from  life,  see 
page  67  and  Part  II. 


88  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  second  issue  of  the  paper,  and  I  remember  with  what 
eagerness  Mr.  Harris  received  it. 

I  think  Mr.  Harris  was  more  influenced  by  Mrs.  J.  P. 
Harrison  and  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Starke,  than  by  any  one 
else.  Mrs.  Harrison  was  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Church 
and  was  a  noble  woman.  The  first  poem  I  ever  knew  Mr. 
Harris  to  write  was  inscribed  to  Mrs.  Starke's  little  daugh 
ter,  Nora  Belle.  He  sent  nearly  all  of  his  salary  to  his 
mother,  who  lived  in  Eatonton.  I  carried  the  mail  to  and 
from  the  post  office,  and  I  believe  that  I  could  swear  to  his 
mother's  handwriting.  I  know  he  was  always  glad  to  re 
ceive  her  letters.1 

When  summing  up  the  formative  influences  upon  Har 
ris's  career,  one  must  place  the  three  years  in  Forsyth  as 
second  only  to  the  four  years  at  Turnwold.  In  Forsyth  the 
youth  became  the  man.  He  entered  the  Advertiser  office 
before  he  was  nineteen  and  left  after  he  was  twenty-one. 
In  1867  he  was  employed  to  set  type  and  prepare  the  forms 
for  the  press.  For  some  time  such  contributions  as  he  made 
to  the  contents  of  the  paper  were  gratuitous.  But  erelong 
he  was  preparing  a  regular  column  that  was  gladly  account 
ed  for  by  the  proprietor-editor  in  the  salary  paid  him.3 
From  being  only  a  member  of  the  typesetters'  union,  Joe 
Harris  within  three  years  became  a  marked  figure  among 
the  editors,  correspondents,  and  reporters  at  the  press  con 
ventions  of  the  State.  His  pen  was  magnetic.  Newspaper 
men  from  every  county  were  drawn  to  him  and  published 
their  recognition  of  his  merits.  The  bright  office  boy  had 
become  the  accomplished  journalist.  His  more  distinctly 

aThe  author  has  compiled  this  account  from  a  letter  dated  Plain 
Dealing,  Louisiana,  August  26,  1915,  written  by  J.  T.  Manry  to  Miss 
S.  S.  Center,  of  Forsyth  and  New  York,  and  from  Mr.  Manry's  cor 
respondence  to  the  Monroe  Advertiser,  issues  of  June  15,  1906,  and 
December  6,  1912. 

*Mrs.  Starke,  letter  of  March  19,  1915. 


Biographical  89 

literary  progress,  too,  was  decisive.  He  had  his  visions,  he 
worked  diligently,  and  he  produced  no  uncertain  results. 
Appreciation  of  his  writing  was  manifested  by  the  cultured 
people  of  his  community,  and  his  name  was  enrolled  among 
men  of  letters  in  the  South. 

Best  of  all,  moreover,  Joe  Harris  learned  in  Forsyth  what 
it  means  to  have  friends.  He  had  left  Eatonton  at  twelve, 
too  young  to  realize  the  significance  of  friendship.  At 
Turnwold  there  was  small  chance  for  him  to  have  the  full 
experience.  Mr.  Turner  was  too  much  his  senior,  and  there 
was  not  opportunity  sufficient  to  prove  true  friendship  be 
tween  himself  and  others  with  whom  he  may  have  been  for 
a  part  of  the  time  associated.  His  residence  in  Macon  and 
in  New  Orleans  was  too  brief  for  friendships,  but  sufficient, 
doubtless,  for  him  to  feel  himself  alone  in  the  city's  cold 
crowd.  So  into  Forsyth  came  this  lone  son  of  a  poor  seam 
stress,  lately  taken  by  sickness  from  his  honorable  position 
in  gay  and  cultured  New  Orleans  back  to  rural  Eatonton, 
into  the  most  poignant  realization  and  immediate  sharing  of 
his  mother's  bitter  poverty  and  loneliness.  Now  came  into 
his  life  the  blessing  of  friends  whose  tender  sympathy  and 
intelligent  encouragement  eased  his  disconsolate  mind  and 
uplifted  his  heart.  Intimate  and  valuable  associations  were 
developed  with  H.  H.  Cabaniss  and  other  young  men  of  the 
town.1  Mr.  Harrison  took  him  into  his  home,  where  friend 
ships  for  life  were  cemented.  Mrs.  Harrison  took  the  deep 
est  personal  interest  in  him.  An  older  sister  of  Mr.  Harri 
son,  Mrs.  Georgia  Starke,  who  regularly  visited  her  brother 
and  sometimes  had  Mr.  Harris  as  a  guest  in  her  mother's 
home,  must  have  received  his  confidences  and  influenced  his 
life  as  did  no  one  else  at  that  time.  It  was  her  little  daugh 
ter  for  whom  Mr.  Harris  cherished  such  affection  as  was 

1See  reference  to  H.  H.  Cabaniss,  pages  75,  76. 


90  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

shown  in  the  verses  already  quoted.  Published  with  the 
lines  to  Nora  Belle,  too,  was  his  significant  tribute  to  the 
mother.1  A  younger  sister  became  a  friend  about  whom 
possibly  gathered  something  of  a  romance.2  We  may  well 
believe  that  Mr.  Harris  left  Forsyth  very  hastily,  as  Mr. 
Manry  tells  us,  because  he  dared  not  undergo  leave-taking 
from  his  friends.  He  went  to  Savannah  in  response  to  an 
offer  that  came  to  him,  not  as  the  result  of  an  application 
on  his  part,  but  as  the  result  of  a  recognition  on  the  part  of 
the  News  proprietor  of  his  value  and  possibilities.  Just 
after  this  fashion  he  had  gone  to  Forsyth;  and  so,  when  he 
had  proved  himself  in  Savannah,  was  he  to  be  called  to  the 
Atlanta  Constitution. 

1See  the  poem  as  given  on  page  83;  also  see  letters  quoted  here 
after,  pages  92ff. 

2See  the  little  poem,  "A  Rembrance,"  page  99. 


I 


VI 

T  was  probably  in  October  of  1870  that  Mr.  Harris  ac-  I 
cepted  a  call  to  the  associate  editorship  of  the  Savannah 
Morning  News.  This  was  a  phenomenal  promotion, 
conclusive  evidence  of  the  faithfulness  and  rapidity  with 
which  he  had  built  upon  the  foundation  laid  at  Turnwold. 
Forsyth  was  but  a  village  of  fifteen  hundred  people;  Sa 
vannah,  with  a  population  of  twenty-eight  thousand,  was 
the  oldest  and  largest  city  in  the  State.  The  News  was,  next 
to  the  Augusta  Chronicle,  the  first  newspaper  established  in 
Georgia  and  was  read  by  thousands  where  the  Advertiser 
was  read  by  hundreds.  It  was  generally  considered  the  best 
all-round  paper  in  the  Southeastern  States.  Col.  W.  T. 
Thompson,  editor  from  its  beginning,  in  1850,  had  achieved, 
in  addition  to  the  honor  of  his  long  and  excellent  journalistic 
work,  literary  fame  as  a  humorist  of  first  rank.  Young  Har 
ris,  knowing  these  facts,  moved  into  his  new  position  with 
bounding  pulse  and  a  heart  filled  with  song  of  high  success. 

Within  a  few  months  he  wrote  in  a  personal  letter  that 
he  had  found  life  in  Savannah  unexpectedly  pleasant  and 
that  his  success  seemed  assured.  He  said  that  Mr.  Harri 
son  had  endeavored  to  attract  him  to  the  Advertiser  again. 
However,  he  intimated,  New  York  would  probably  be  the 
scene  of  his  later  conquest.  But  his  letter  was  devoted 
chiefly  to  the  precious  memory  of  the  old  friends  in  For 
syth.  He  had  left  them  only  because  it  appeared  his  duty 
to  accept  the  superior  offer  made  to  him  by  the  News. 
Except  for  his  brief  sojourns  in  Macon  and  New  Orleans, 
he  was  now  for  the  first  time  absolutely  among  strangers, 
farther  from  the  home  of  his  childhood  than  he  was 
ever  to  live  again.  He  was  no  longer  in  a  friend's  home  as 

(91) 


92  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

one  of  the  family,  but  eating  and  sleeping  in  a  boarding 
house.  He  was  not  a  co-worker  on  a  paper  to  him  much  as 
his  own,  but  was  one  employed  to  do  a  certain  amount  of 
labor  on  a  great  daily  whose  ownership  was  of  small  per 
sonal  concern  to  him.  And  he  gave  small  occasion  for  any 
one  to  take  interest  in  him.  A  venerable  citizen  of  Savan 
nah  who  saw  him  daily  during  those  years  recalls  that  he 
was  retiring  and  hard  to  approach,  seeming  content  to  live 
his  life  very  much  to  himself;  that  he  attended  no  church 
regularly;  that  he  was  not  given  to  joking  or  story-telling, 
but  rather  was  very  quiet  and  added  few  comments  to  the 
conversation  around  him ;  that  he  was  "homely,  red-haired, 
freckle-faced — in  general  appearance  a  veritable  "crack 
er."1  So,  after  the  novelty  of  his  new  situation  had  worn 
off  during  the  months  of  autumn,  and  after  dreary  winter 
had  come,  he  was  in  a  melancholy  mood  when,  on  the  eve 
of  his  twenty-second  birthday  anniversary,  there  greeted 
him  a  letter  from  his  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Starke.  Immediate 
response  poured  forth  from  his  soul,  revealing  a  conception 
of  life  and  an  ambition  that  would  have  startled  the  unsus 
pecting  stranger,  sentiments  and  emotions  that  the  world 
might  not  perceive,  until  it  read  through  the  character  of 
Uncle  Remus : 

OFFICE  MORNING  NEWS,  SAVANNAH,  GEORGIA, 

9  Dec.,  1870. 

Dear  Mrs.  Starke:  You  cannot  imagine  how  glad  I  was  to 
receive  your  letter  yesterday.  It  is  something  to  be  remem 
bered  by  one's  friends,  isn't  it  ?  And  such  remembrances  as 
your  letter  are  very  precious.  It  came  just  in  time  to  relieve 
me  from  a  serious  attack  of  the  blues;  and  in  order  to  se 
cure  a  repetition  of  the  remedy,  I  write  at  once. 

About  myself  there  is,  indeed,  very  little  to  be  said.  I 
left  Forsyth  with  much  regret  and  only  after  the  most  seri- 

1Oral  statement  of  Mr.  A.  McC.  Duncan,  August,  1915. 


Biographical  93 

ous  deliberation.  If  I  had  consulted  my  desires — my  per 
sonal  feelings,  I  mean — I  would  have  remained  on  the  Ad 
vertiser;  but  in  this  miserable  world  personal  predilections 
are  often  sacrificed  for  gain.  It  is  a  sad  confession  to 
make;  but,  in  my  case  at  least,  it  is  true.  The  personal 
relations  between  Mr.  Harrison  and  myself  have  been 
throughout  of  the  kindest  and  the  most  intimate  character. 
There  have  been  occasions  undoubtedly  when  his  impatient 
temper  rendered  me  uncomfortable,  because  I  am  extremely 
sensitive;  but  I  dare  say  that  my  shortcomings,  together 
with  the  thousand  and  one  imperfections  which,  through 
some  bitter  destiny,  are  a  part  of  my  nature,  have  to  an  in 
finite  degree  overbalanced  everything.  The  cause  of  my 
leaving  Forsyth  was  a  matter  of  business  simply  and  had 
nothing  to  do  with  my  friendship  or  personal  feelings.  I 
was  offered  a  position  as  associate  editor  on  the  News  at  a 
salary  that  I  could  not  refuse,  and  I  therefore  concluded  to 
accept.  ...  I  spoke  fully  and  freely  of  my  hopes  and 
prospects  and  asked  his  (Mr.  H.)  advice  in  the  matter. 
.  .  .  The  position  of  associate  editor  on  a  leading  paper 
like  the  News  is  not  often  tendered  to  a  person  as  young 
and  inexperienced  as  myself,  and  I  could  not  refuse.  In 
speaking  with  Mr.  H.  I  had  insisted  upon  and  emphasized 
the  fact  that  it  was  my  desire  to  remain  in  Forsyth,  but 
that  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  come  to  Savannah,  .  .  . 
what  I  conceived  to  be  a  perfectly  plain  distinction  between 
duty  and  desire.  He  afterwards  came  to  Savannah  to  see 
me  and  to  offer  a  proposition,  the  acceptance  of  which  would 
take  me  back  to  Forsyth.  ...  If  you  have  received  even 
so  much  as  a  hint  that  I  left  Forsyth  on  account  of  a  mis 
understanding,  I  assure  you  it  is  a  mistake.  ...  I  never 
knew  what  a  real  friend  was  until  I  went  to  Forsyth ;  and  it 
is  no  wonder  that  I  look  back  upon  my  life  there  with  ten- 
derest  and  most  sincere  regrets — regrets  that  I  was  compelled 
to  give  it  up.  My  history  is  a  peculiar  and  unfortunate  one, 
and  those  three  years  in  Forsyth  are  the  very  brightest  of 
my  life.  They  are  a  precious  memorial  of  what  would  oth 
erwise  be  as  bleak  and  desolate  as  winter;  and  the  friends 
whom  I  knew  and  loved  there,  whom  I  still  know  and  love, 
will  never  lose  their  places  in  my  heart — those  dear  friends 
who  were  so  gentle,  so  kind,  and  so  good,  who  were  always 


94  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ready  to  overlook  my  shortcomings  and  to  forgive  my  awk 
ward  blunders.  There  is  pathos  enough  in  the  recollection 
of  these  things  to  form  an  immortal  poem,  if  one  could  only 
fashion  it  aright.  But,  for  my  part,  I  will  not  try.  Words 
are  weak  at  best,  and  it  is  only  once  in  a  century  that  they 
should  be  employed  on  such  a  sacred  subject.  That  part  of 
my  life  which  is  still  in  the  future  I  am  willing  to  trust  en 
tirely  to  fate  or  Providence,  but  I  know  that  the  coming 
years  hold  for  me  no  such  happiness  and  will  duplicate  no 
such  dear  days.  I  know  in  my  soul  that  I  will  never  again 
find  such  friends,  tender  and  true-hearted,  faithful  and  for 
giving.  ...  I  do  not  easily  forget.  My  surroundings 
here  are  pleasant  to  a  degree  that  I  could  not  have  hoped 
for,  and  my  success  seems  to  be  assured.  But  there  is 
something  wanting — something,  I  cannot  tell  what.  I  do 
not  feel  at  home.  The  place  lacks  something. 

After  all,  though,  these  objections  are  only  nominal.  The 
main  point  is  success  and  advancement.  Whether  I  shall 
succeed  ultimately,  I  cannot  tell.  I  will  do  my  best,  and 
then  if  I  fail  I  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  pre 
cisely  of  what  I  am  capable;  and  you  will  agree  with  me 
that,  in  the  vanities  and  egotisms  of  youth,  knowledge  of 
that  sort  is  invaluable.  In  case  of  failure  I  give  place  sim 
ply  to  some  one  who  perhaps  is  infinitely  better  and  wor 
thier. 

Don't  fail  to  write  to  me.  I  have  been  without  sympathy 
a  good  portion  of  my  life ;  and  your  letters  are  very  highly 
prized,  I  do  assure  you.  Please  remember  when  you  write 
to  a  "lonesome"  boy  like  me  you  are  doing  missionary  work. 

I  have  no  idea  how  long  I  shall  remain  in  Savannah,  the 
probability  being  that  I  shall  gravitate  toward  that  shining 
Sodom  called  New  York;  but,  here,  there,  or  elsewhere, 
please  remember  that  I  am  always  the  same  and  always  your 
friend.  J.  C.  HARRIS." 

With  a  mother's  tender  heart,  Mrs.  Starke  sat  right  down 


letter  from  Mr.  Harris  to  Mrs.  Georgia  Starke,  dated  Savannah, 
Georgia,  December  9,  1870. 


Biographical  95 

and  wrote  the  forlorn  young  man  a  long  letter.  She  urged 
him  to  make  friends  among  the  new  people.  But,  writing 
again  at  once  of  his  consuming  affection  for  his  old  friends, 
he  declared  his  "absolute  horror  of  strangers"  and  wrote 
pathetically  of  his  "morbid  sensitiveness,"  that  caused  him 
more  mortification  and  grief  than  anything  in  the  world. 
These  two  elements  in  his  nature  largely  explain  why  Mr. 
Harris,  the  "shy  little  recluse"  of  Eatonton,  remained 
throughout  his  life  a  shy  recluse.  He  would  not  try  now  to 
make  friends,  he  said,  for  another  reason :  he  desired  to  be 
thrown  entirely  upon  his  own  resources,  in  order  that  he 
might  know  truly  of  what  he  was  capable. 

MORNING  NEWS  OFFICE,  SAVANNAH,  GEORGIA, 

18  Dec.,  1870. 

Dear  Mrs.  Starke:  .  .  .  [Appreciation  of  a  long  let 
ter.] 

I  don't  expect  to  make  any  friends  here,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  shall  not  try.  I  haven't  room  in  my  heart  for 
them.  My  love,  my  friendship,  and  my  esteem  are  ex 
hausted  on  the  few  friends  that  I  already  have.  You  see,  I 
am  conservative  in  my  disposition  and  suspicious  of  new 
faces.  I  wouldn't  give  even  the  memory  of  my  friends  for 
the  balance  of  the  world.  I  have  an  absolute  horror  of 
strangers;  and  as  for  making  friends  of  them  now,  it  is  not 
to  be  thought  of.  I  am  determined  to  put  myself  to  the  test 
at  once,  so  that  I  may  know  exactly  what  is  in  me.  In  order 
to  do  this  I  will  have  to  trust  entirely  to  merit  for  success 
instead  of  depending  upon  the  biased  judgment  of  friends. 
By  this  means  my  capabilities,  if  I  have  any,  will  show 
themselves. 

My  letters  are  exact  transcripts  of  my  thoughts.  They 
stand  me  instead  of  a  "gift  of  gab,"  which,  most  unfortu 
nately,  I  do  not  possess.  .  .  . 

The  truth  is,  I  am  morbidly  sensitive.  With  some  people 
the  quality  of  sensitiveness  adds  to  their  refinement  and  is 
quite  a  charm.  With  me  it  is  an  affliction,  a  disease  that  has 
cost  me  more  mortification  and  grief  than  anything  in  the 
world  or  everything  put  together.  The  least  hint,  a  word,  a 


96  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

gesture  is  enough  to  put  me  in  a  frenzy  almost.  The  least 
coolness  on  the  part  of  a  friend,  the  slightest  rebuff  tortures 
me  beyond  expression ;  and  I  have  wished  a  thousand  times 
that  I  was  dead  and  buried  and  out  of  sight.  You  cannot 
conceive  to  what  extent  this  feeling  goes  with  me.  It  is 
worse  than  death  itself.  It  is  HORRIBLE.  My  dearest  friends 
have  no  idea  how  often  they  have  crucified  me.  Of  course 
no  one  can  sympathize  with  such  an  inexplicable  disposition. 
I  can  see  how  foolish  it  is ;  but  the  feeling  is  there,  neverthe 
less,  and  I  can  no  more  control  it  than  I  can  call  into  life 
the  "dry  bones"  or  bid  the  moon  to  stand  still  "over  the 
valley  of  Ajalon."  .  .  .  Her  treatment  of  me  was  perhaps 
the  best,  after  all ;  for  it  showed  me,  more  completely  than 
a  thousand  years'  experience  could  have  done,  what  a  coarse, 
ungainly  boor  I  am — how  poor,  small,  and  insignificant. 

This  letter  is  all  about  self,  self,  self.  That  is  the  bur 
then,  the  chorus,  and  the  refrain — self,  self,  self.  I  beg  that 
you  will  pardon  such  dreary  dribble  and  consider  it  confi 
dential.  I  do  not  often  tell  my  thoughts  so  precisely  and  do 
not  care  to  do  so. 

Most  sincerely  and  faithfully  your  friend, 

J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

During  the  months  that  followed  it  was  often  letters  from 
Mrs.  Starke,  undoubtedly,  that  kept  the  divine  fire  burning 
in  his  soul.  Sympathy,  counsel,  encouragement,  good  cheer, 
and  inspiration  came  to  him  from  this  unfailing  source.  He 
always  gratefully  acknowledged  that  she  saved  him  from 
New  York.  Thirty  years  later  he  wrote  of  the  abiding  in 
fluence  of  this  friendship  through  all  the  years,  attributing 
to  it  his  best  work.2  When  he  had  been  in  Savannah  for 
nearly  two  years,  the  following  letter  was  written  : 

aLetter  to  Mrs.  Starke,  dated  Savannah,  Georgia,  December  18, 
1870. 

2Letter  to  Mrs.  Starke,  dated  Atlanta,  December  23,  1901,  and  let 
ter  to  Miss  Nora  Belle  Starke,  dated  Atlanta,  December  26,  1906, 
both  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Starke. 


My  Dear  Friend: 


Biographical.  97 

SAVANNAH,  June  4,  1872. 


I  have  often  thought  that  my  ideas  were  in  some  degree 
distorted  and  tinged  with  a  coloring  of  romance  fatal  to  any 
practical  ambition.  But  if  it  is  to  be  so,  so  be  it.  You  may 
be  sure  that  I  will  cling  to  my  idiosyncrasies.  They  are  a 
part  of  me,  and  I  am  a  part  of  them.  They  are  infinitely 
soothing,  and  I  would  not  be  without  them  for  the  world. 
Why,  sometimes,  do  you  know,  I  give  myself  up  to  the 
sweet  indolence  of  thinking  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  at  such 
times  I  am  supremely  and  ineffably  happy — happy  whether 
my  thoughts  are  tinged  with  regret  or  flushed  with  hope. 
Not  the  least  of  my  pleasures  is  the  pleasure  of  melancholy. 
Sorrow  is  sometimes  sweet — always  sweet  when  it  brings 
back  to  us,  through  the  unexplorable  caverns  of  the  nights 
that  have  fled,  some  dear  dead  face,  the  tone  of  some  silent 
voice.  Those  who  have  not  groped  through  the  mystery  of 
pain,  who  have  not  been  wrapped  about  with  the  amber  fogs 
of  sorrow,  have  not  experienced  the  grandest  developments 
of  this  life,  and  from  my  soul  I  pity  them. 

Nearly  akin  to  these  things  is  another  experience  of  mine, 
and  it  is  very  curious.  When  I  was  about  six  years  old,  I 
went  with  my  mother  to  the  funeral  of  my  grandmother; 
and  the  first  words  that  the  preacher  said — and  the  only  ones 
that  I  remember — have  sung  in  my  ears  from  that  day  to 
this.  I  have  never  forgotten  them  for  a  single  moment. 
They  are  present  with  me  at  all  times  and  under  all  circum 
stances.  No  matter  what  I  do,  what  I  say,  nor  where  I 
turn,  these  words  are  running  in  my  mind  like  an  undertone 
of  sweet  music :  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith 
the  Lord."  I  often  say  it  aloud,  unintentionally  and  uncon 
sciously.  In  my  copy  books  which  I  used  at  school  it  is 
written  hundreds  of  times.  In  my  composition  book  it  oc 
cupies  every  available  place :  '7  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life,  saith  the  Lord."  .  .  . 

If  you  only  knew  how  precious  your  letters  are,  how  they 
are  read  and  reread,  you  would  not  think  the  time  spent  in 
writing  them  altogether  thrown  away. 

I  inclose  you  a  copy  of  "A  Remembrance."  It  is  crude 
7 


98  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

enough,  both  in  thought  and  in  expression ;  but  the  invaria 
ble  result  of  all  of  my  attempts  at  elaboration  is  to  consign 
everything  to  the  wastebasket.  Speaking  of  attempts  at 
verse-building  reminds  me  to  tell  you  that  "Nora  Belle"  has 
been  copied  from  one  end  of  the  South  to  the  other,  and 
the  Western  papers  are  now  taking  it  up.  I  learn  through  a 
friend  that  General  Toombs  has  spoken  very  highly  of  it, 
and  through  another  that  Paul  Hayne,  the  poet,  character 
ized  it  as  "very  fine." 

I  am  never  more  lonely  than  when  in  a  crowd. 

Now,  as  always,  faithfully  your  friend,      J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

These  letters  to  Mrs.  Starke  indicate  the  powerful  period 
of  introspection  through  which  he  was  passing.  The  expe 
rience  was  essential,  but  he  must  be  saved  from  morbidness. 
While  he  was  assured  of  success  in  his  profession,  and  his 
ambition  and  hope  were  high,  still  he  was  conscious  of 
"something  wanting";  the  place  "lacked  something."  It 
was  something  to  lift  him  out  of  himself  that  was  needed. 
The  lack  was  in  his  heart ;  and  there  was  wanting,  not  some 
thing,  but  some  one.  Romance,  which  had  "tinged  his 
ideas,"  should  now  become  part  of  his  life.  He  needed  now 
more  than  friendship  alone;  he  needed  love.  But  the  soci 
ety  of  young  ladies  was  for  him  a  thing  unknown  and  not 
to  be  contemplated.  Feeling  that  he  had  no  personal  attrac 
tions,  having  a  horror  of  strangers,  and  afflicted  with  sensi 
tiveness,  social  embarrassment  was  the  dread  of  his  life, 
and  habitually  he  sought  the  seclusion  of  his  daily  and 
nightly  newspaper  work.  "'Mingled  in  society?'"  replies 
Mrs.  Starke.  "That  is  a  joke,  if  it  were  not  so  serious."2 

Yet,  as  the  world  has  since  come  to  know,  he  had  a  heart 

letter  to  Mrs.  Starke,  dated  Savannah,  Georgia,  June  4,  1872. 
2Letter  dated  Atlanta,  March  19,  1915, 


Biographical.  99 

fashioned  only  to  love.  This  we  see  through  these  letters, 
and  from  such  a  heart  occasionally  flowed  revealing  lyrics. 
Of  "A  Remembrance"  Mrs.  Starke  writes:  "Mr.  Harris 
was  visiting  my  mother  on  Capitol  Avenue  [Atlanta] ;  and 
one  moonlight  evening,  while  he  was  lying  out  on  the  lawn, 
the  singing  of  my  sister,  Miss  Nora  Harrison,  must  have 
touched  him."1 

A  REMEMBRANCE* 
(Atlanta,  1871) 


Soft,  low,  and  sweet,  yet  clear  and  strong, 

Rose  the  rich  volume  of  your  song; 

While  on  the  languid  August  air, 

That  swept  your  face  and  stirred  your  hair, 

Invoked  as  by  some  magic  spell, 

Wild  gusts  of  music  rose  and  fell. 

In  the  vague  hollows  of  the  night 

The  calm  stars  swung  steadfastly  bright; 

A  bird,  belated  in  the  gloom, 

Flew  nestward  with  bedraggled  plume; 

A  star  shook  loose  her  fiery  train 

And  swept  across  the  sapphire  plain — 

Then  all  was  still,  except  the  strong, 

Rich  distone  of  your  sweet  song. 

ii 

I  stood  entranced ;  my  soul  was  bound ; 
Melodious  thralls  enwrapt  me  round. 


better  dated  Atlanta,  July  24,  1915.  (Miss  Harrison  later  became 
Mrs.  E.  Y.  Clarke.) 

2  A  copy  of  this  poem  was  furnished  by  Mrs.  Starke.  It  was  pub 
lished  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution  December  5,  1876,  with  four  ver 
bal  changes,  as  follows:  In  line  ten  flew— swept;  line  12,  swept — 
shot;  line  13,  Then — And;  line  14,  distone — harmony;  and  the  date 
was  printed  1873. 


ioo  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

I  lived  again  the  wild,  uncouth, 
Dear,  devious  days  of  my  lost  youth ; 
But  floods  of  song  swept  in  and  drowned 
The  old-time  singers,  sorrow-crowned. 
I  saw  once  more  the  friends  of  old 
And  heard  their  voices  manifold; 
The  waste,  wan  years  slipped  slowly  by, 
With  many  a  change  of  sea  and  sky, 
With  many  a  change  of  form  and  hue, 
And  left  me  happy  there  with  you. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 

These  lines,  written  in  the  summer  of  1871,  show  unmis 
takably  that  the  young  man  was  responding  to  romantic 
promptings.  Within  a  few  weeks,  from  the  far-away  North 
directly  to  Savannah,  came  a  beautiful  sixteen-year-old 
French-Canadian  girl.  Her  father,  a  sea  captain,  had  moved 
to  Savannah  when  he  began  conducting  a  steamship  business 
from  that  point.  She  had  now  graduated  from  the  school 
at  St.  Hyacinth  Convent,  near  Montreal,  and  was  to  spend 
the  winter  with  her  parents,  who  were  living  in  a  boarding 
place  where  Mr.  Harris  lived.  We  may  imagine  with  what 
utter  confusion  the  young  editor  met  her.  However,  much 
against  his  will  at  first,  he  was  occasionally  thrown  in  her 
company.  Her  natural,  frank  manner  soon  relieved  his 
embarrassment.  Her  spirit  and  vivacity  attracted  him.  He 
began  to  linger  after  meals  when  she  was  around.  He  be 
came  bold  enough  to  tease  her.  They  matched  wits  daily. 
With  the  approach  of  summer  she  went  away  to  the  North, 
and  he  was  grieved.  They  had  agreed  to  correspond;  but 
when  she  did  not  write  often,  he  charged  her  with  neglect, 
and  the  correspondence  ceased. 

In  the  fall  she  returned  with  added  graces  and  beauty, 
accompanied  by  the  rumor  of  a  suitor  in  Canada.  The 
young  editor  was  eager  to  capitulate  and,  when  given  an 
excuse,  gladly  forgot  his  late  pique.  He  sought  her  com- 


Biographical.  101 

pany  after  the  noon  meal  each  day  and  one  evening  a  week 
when  free  from  work.  In  her  presence  he  was  no  longer 
self-conscious,  but  wholly  at  ease  and  happy.  Any  one  who 
knows  Mrs.  Harris  to-day  can  understand  why  this  was  so. 
Unaffected,  sincere,  gentle,  sympathetic,  adapting  herself 
without  effort  to  her  company,  full  of  life,  and  ready  with 
wit,  hers  were  the  best  of  French  qualities,  which  balanced 
charmingly  with  the  marked  racial  characteristics  of  the 
young  Saxon.  Their  hearts  joined  in  comradeship.  Rising 
responsively  from  his  timidity  and  awkwardness,  Joel  Har 
ris  became  the  ardent  lover.  And  before  the  winter  was 
over  she  had  promised  to  marry  him. 

Captain  LaRose,  though  away  from  home  much  of  the 
time,  suspected  the  editor's  attentions,  was  wary,  and, 
when  in  the  city,  steered  his  daily  course  far  in  the  offing. 
But  there  came  a  day  when  Mr.  Harris  opportunely  distin 
guished  his  retreating  footsteps,  pursued  him  through  the 
hallway,  and  overtook  him  at  the  doorsteps. 

"Too  young !"  the  seaman  blustered.  "She  knows  nothing 
of  housekeeping.  Both  of  you  are  too  young  to  take  care  of 
yourselves." 

"I  can  take  care  of  her/5  protested  the  suitor. 

"Well,  if  she  wants  to  marry  you,  I  leave  it  with  her/' 
were  the  happy  words  that  ended  the  pointed  conversation. 

The  fond  father  tempted  his  daughter  with  a  proffered  trip 
abroad,  to  France  and  other  European  countries,  but  she  pre 
ferred  to  marry.  In  the  parlor  of  the  boarding  house,  on 
April  21,  1873,  was  solemnized  in  a  quiet  manner  the  mar 
riage  of  Esther  LaRose,  aged  eighteen,  and  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  aged  twenty-four.  A  bridal  trip  to  North  Georgia, 
cut  short  by  an  unseasonable  spell  of  weather,  was  extended 
during  the  following  summer  into  Canada.  The  young 
couple  did  not  undertake  housekeeping,  but  continued  to 


IO2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

board  in  the  same  place,  101  Broughton  Street,  as  long  as 
Savannah  was  their  home.1 

Mr.  Harris's  marriage  came  just  halfway  in  the  period  of 
his  residence  in  Savannah.  His  six  years  there  were  marked 
by  intense  devotion  to  his  newspaper  work.  It  was  particu 
larly  his  brisk  little  paragraphs  in  the  Advertiser  that  had 
advanced  him  to  the  News,2  and  the  punster  of  The  Coun 
tryman  became  the  paragraph  editor  of  the  great  city  daily. 
His  chief  duty  was  to  gather  news  items  from  the  exchanges 
and  prepare  for  each  issue  of  the  paper  two  columns,  headed 
"Affairs  in  Georgia"  and  "Florida  Affairs."3  Through  the 
files  of  the  News  one  quickly  discovers  that  for  him  it  was 
not  a  mere  matter  of  sitting  with  scissors  and  paste  pot, 
clipping  the  news  from  other  papers,  pasting  the  clippings 
on  copy  paper,  and  having  little  Frank  L.  Stanton  take  them 
to  the  composing  room.  He  applied  mind  and  heart  to  this 
special  feature  of  his,  so  that  his  humorous  and  ridiculous 
comments  on  persons  and  incidents  became  the  joy  of  the 
thousands  who  never  failed  to  read  these  columns.  In  addi 
tion,  he  often  shared  the  work  of  the  regular  editorial  page 
and  contributed  to  other  columns  various  matter  of  his  own 
composition.  Mr.  Stanton  to-day  recalls  how  often  he  got 
interested  in  something  in  the  paper  and  later  found  that  it 
was  Mr.  Harris  who  had  written  it.*  Mr.  Duncan  says  of 
Mr.  Harris : 

aThis  account  of  the  romance  and  marriage  of  Miss  LaRose  and 
Mr.  Harris  is  based  on  a  relation  of  the  same  by  Mrs.  Harris.  Janu 
ary  I,  1916.  The  Savannah  Directory  of  1874-75  gives :  Harris,  Joel 
C,  assistant  editor  of  Morning  Neivs,  boards  101  Broughton  Street ; 
LaRose,  Peter,  steamboat  captain,  residence  101  Broughton  Street. 

2Mrs.  Starke ;  letter  dated  Atlanta,  Georgia,  March  19,  1915. 

8Oral  statements  of  Mr.  A.  McD.  Duncan,  Mr.  T.  K.  Oglesby,  and 
others. 

'Oral  statement  of  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


Biographical.  103 

He  appeared  lazy,  but  worked  hard  day  and  night  at  his 
desk.  When  a  paragraph  or  article  appeared  in  an  exchange 
that  invited  special  attention,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Colonel 
Thompson  called  on  Mr.  Harris  for  an  editorial  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  so  possibly  began  his  writings  in  a  systematic  way. 
Mr.  Harris  and  Colonel  Thompson  were  of  very  different 
temperaments,  but  were  congenial  and  worked  together  har 
moniously. 

From  the  Georgia  and  Florida  columns  two  or  three  para 
graphs  are  here  taken  at  random.  They  are,  of  course,  mere 
newspaper  work  at  its  farthest  point  of  separation  from 
work  of  literary  quality.  But  this  feature  in  the  newspa 
pers,  then  being  first  developed,  was,  as  it  still  is,  exceeding 
ly  effective  in  catching  the  interest  of  the  great  body  of 
subscribers ;  and  so  Mr.  Harris  had  to  supply  the  unrelent 
ing  daily  demand  for  twenty-five  to  fifty  such  items : 

Col.  H.  Whirfletree  Grady,  of  the  Atlanta  Herald,  has 
found  time  between  his  editorial  and  poetic  recreations  to 
invent  a  new  design  for  a  chicken  coop.  The  superstructure 
will  be  tested  at  the  next  State  fair. 

[July  6,  1874.] 

Lochrane  refuses  to  run  against  Freeman  for  Congress  in 
the  Atlanta  District  on  the  ground  that  the  latter  is  his  un 
cle  or  brother-in-law  or  something  of  that  sort.  Now, 
what  son  of  a  breech-loading  air  gun  will  rise  and  say  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  ties  of  consanguinity? 

[July  6,  1874.] 

One  with  an  eye  for  prophecy  may  note  with  satisfaction 
the  prominence  given  to  absurd  comments  on  negro  inci 
dents  : 

A  colored  emigrant  bound  for  Arkansas  got  into  a  dispute 
with  a  Macon  negro  the  other  day  and  was  promptly  vacci 
nated. 

[January  4,  1873.] 


104  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

A  Lumpkin  negro  seriously  injured  his  pocketknife  re 
cently  by  undertaking  to  stab  a  colored  brother  in  the  head. 
[January  6,  1873.] 

The  most  effective  of  these  paragraphs  were  of  immediate 
interest  only,  depending  upon  the  reader's  familiarity  with 
men  and  affairs  of  that  day,  and  so  cannot  be  generally  ap 
preciated  to-day.  In  the  first  given  above,  for  instance,  the 
person  referred  to  was  Henry  Woodfin  Grady,  the  great 
journalist  and  orator,  with  whom  Harris  was  two  years  later 
to  be  associated  on  the  Atlanta  Constitution  staff.  There 
was  carried  on  among  the  newspaper  men,  then  even  more 
than  now,  a  constant  cross-fire  of  wit,  in  which  Harris  took 
the  lead.  Among  themselves  they  knew,  too,  Harris's  epi 
grammatic  work  that  appeared  from  time  to  time  on  the 
editorial  page  (examples  of  which  one  may  not  to-day  ven 
ture  to  identify),  and  they  hailed  him  as  the  master  para- 
graphist.  The  Atlanta  Constitution  paid  him  tribute  as  fol 
lows: 

JINKS  CONUNDRUM  HARRIS 

AN  ILLUSTRATED  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  ONE  OF  GEORGIA'S 
FUNNY  MEN 

We  gave  our  readers  a  few  days  ago  an  extract  detailing 
the  history  of  one  Mr.  Bailey,  whose  humorous  paragraphs 
in  a  little  provincial  weekly  in  New  England  called  the  Dan- 
bury  News  have  made  the  paper  and  the  man  famous  over 
the  Union. 

We  give  to-day  to  our  readers  a  sketch  of  a  young  man 
connected  with  the  Georgia  press,  whose  humor,  in  its  way, 
is,  in  our  judgment,  equally  as  racy  as  that  of  the  Danbury 
joker.  We  say  this  in  seriousness.  Harris's  humor  has 
made  his  paper,  the  Savannah  News,  noted  for  the  sparkle 
of  its  Georgia  column. 

The  following  is  an  accurate  photograph  of  Harris  in 
structing  some  of  his  numerous  imitators.  [A  cartoon  by 
E.  Purcell  represents  the  giant  figure  of  Harris  with  arm 
extended  above  three  small  figures.  Then  follows  a  bur- 


Biographical  105 

lesque  biographical  sketch  relating  Harris  to  Rabelais,  Fal- 
staff,  and  Mark  Twain,  emphasizing  the  exuberance  of  his 
fun,  and  concluding  as  follows :] 

But  we  must  stop.  The  very  suggestion  of  Harris  sets 
our  paper  to  capering  with  laughter,  our  table  to  cutting  up 
comical  didos,  pen  to  dancing  a  kind  of  Highland  fling.  The 
following  are  distinguished  specimens  of  Harris's  jokes. 
He  has  them  all  patented : 

"A  Rome  man  wants  an  air-line,  narrow-gauge  canal  be 
tween  Baltimore  and  New  Orleans.  We  were  just  talking 
about  this  thing  the  other  day.  If  Rome  don't  have  it 
erected,  hanged  if  we  don't  put  a  couple  of  able-bodied  ne 
groes  to  work  on  it  immediately  and  thus  receive  the  copy- 
right." 

"The  man  with  the  ink  eraser  was  in  Macon  the  other  day. 
The  humblest  citizen  is,  by  this  noble  invention,  put  upon  a 
war  footing  and  can  at  once  proceed  to  raise  checks  with 
perfect  impunity." 

"Col.  I.  W.  Avery,  of  the  Constitution,  has  purchased  a 
new  pair  of  silver-plated  gutta-percha  garters.  He  is  now  of 
the  opinion  that  women  should  be  allowed  to  vote,  without 
regard  to  sex."1 

There  is  left  to  us  no  way  of  determining  what  "heavy" 
editorials  were  written  by  Mr.  Harris ;  but,  upon  the  opinion 
of  men  like  Mr.  Duncan  and  Mr.  Oglesby,  it  may  be  as 
sumed  that  he  did  a  considerable  amount  of  such  writing. 
There  are  preserved  in  his  "Census"  scrapbook  clippings  of 
his  traveling  correspondence  from  Indian  Spring,  Griffin, 
Barnesville,  Gainesville,  Tallulah  Falls,  and  Atlanta,  repre 
senting  pleasure  trips,  press  conventions,  agricultural  con 
ventions,  and  politics.  All  of  the  writing  for  the  News  was 
done  with  a  skill  that  gratified  the  senior  editor,  who,  soon 


1The  Atlanta  Constitution,  April  23,  1873.     Reproduced,  in  part, 
by  the  Monroe  Advertiser,  April  29,  1873. 


io6  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

after  Mr.  Harris  had  moved  to  Atlanta,  expressed  through 
his  editorial  columns  the  following  appreciation : 

The  Atlanta  Constitution  announces  that  it  will  shortly 
commence  in  its  weekly  issue  the  publication  of  a  serial 
story  ...  by  our  friend  and  late  associate,  Mr.  J.  C. 
Harris.  As  a  graceful  and  versatile  writer,  Mr.  Harris  has 
few  equals  in  the  South,  whilst  with  inventive  genius  of  a 
high  order  he  combines  rare  powers  of  description,  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  genial  humor,  and  caustic  wit.1 

Mr.  H.  H.  Cabaniss,  who  had  become  editor  of  the  Mon 
roe  Advertiser,  characterized  him  at  this  time  as  a  "brilliant 
paragraphist,  an  able  political  writer,  and  a  man  of  rare 
versatility  of  talent."2 

Mr.  Harris's  success  as  an  editor,  indeed,  now  became  the 
danger  in  the  way  of  his  literary  career.  From  his  early 
years  he  had  given  much  study  to  literature  and  had  pro 
posed  to  become  himself  an  author.  But  now  he  was  being 
forced  into  a  very  practical  consideration  of  life.  In  1874 
his  first  son,  Julian,  was  born,  and  in  1875  another,  Lucien. 
Captain  LaRose  was  anxious  to  set  him  up  in  an  independ 
ent  newspaper  business,  but  his  pride  would  not  allow  him 
to  accept  assistance  from  his  father-in-law.3  He  had  to 
work  hard,  day  and  night,  to  cover  the  task  of  his  regular 
employment,  whereby  he  made  a  livelihood  for  his  family 
and  assisted  his  mother.  Consequently  there  was  no  time 
left  for  the  development  of  purely  literary  talent.  Then, 
too,  he  had  risen  steadily  in  his  profession,  until  he  was 
heralded  as  one  of  Georgia's  most  promising  journalists. 
So  why  should  he  turn  aside  to  uncertain  literary  pursuits? 
But  while  he  no  longer  contemplated  this,  his  unbroken  in- 

1W.  T.  Thompson,  Savannah  Morning  News,  March,  1878. 
2H.  H.  Cabaniss,  Monroe  Advertiser,  November  28,   1876.     See 
pages  75,  76. 

3Oral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 


Biographical  107 

tellectual  habits  were  such  as  to  promote  his  fitness  for  a 
literary  career.  He  read  extensively  and  practiced  all  kinds 
of  written  composition.  Seeking  access  to  a  library,  he 
became  a  member  of  the  Georgia  Historical  Society  (found 
ed  in  Savannah  in  I839).1  We  have  seen  how  Colonel 
Thompson  distinguished  his  particular  merits  as  a  writer — 
"wit,"  "humor,"  "grace,"  "descriptive  power,"  "invention," 
"versatility."  Of  his  abiding  interest  in  versification  there 
is  evidence  of  a  later  date  than  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Starke  in 
i872.2  For  example,  at  the  head  of  the  first  column  on  the 
front  page  of  the  News  of  January  i,  1874,  appeared  ten 
stanzas  based  on  one  of  his  New  Orleans  poems,  "The  Old 
and  the  New"  : 

JANUARY  i,  1874* 

I 
Clasp  the  hands  of  those  who  are  going, 

Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 
For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

II 
Greet  the  New  Year  with  music  and  laughter, 

Let  the  Old  pass  away  with  a  tear ; 
For  we  shall  remember,  hereafter, 

The  many  who  die  with  the  year; 

in 
And  the  songs  of  the  children  of  Sorrow 

Shall  unite  with  the  echoes  of  mirth 
Ere  the  sweet,  glad  sun  of  to-morrow 

Smiles  down  on  the  night-smitten  earth. 

aMr.  William  Harden,  the  present  librarian,  has  found  record  of 
Mr.  Harris's  membership.  Until  1875  its  library  was  not  open  to  the 
public,  and  the  membership  fee  was  ten  dollars. 

2See  page  98. 

8The  Savannah  Morning  News,  January  I,  1874.  Compare  page 
73- 


io8  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

IV 

And  the  meek  and  stricken  daughters  of  Anguish 
Shall  lift  their  sharp  burthens  of  pain 

And  long,  as  they  linger  and  languish, 
For  Christ's  blessed  presence  again. 

v 

For  time  has  struck  down  the  heart's  idols— 
The  fairest,  the  dearest  have  died — 

And  Death  hath  gone  grimly  to  bridals 
And  claimed  the  first  kiss  of  the  bride. 

VI 

But  the  glory  of  noon  and  the  gray-light 
Are  gathered  and  mingled  in  one, 

And  the  darkness  of  dawn  and  the  daylight 
Precede  the  approach  of  the  sun. 

VII 

A  poor  mother  bird  is  oft  lifted 

From  the  storm-shaken  bough  where  she  clung 
And  cruelly  driven  and  drifted 

Far  away  from  her  nest-full  of  young. 

VIII 

But  the  wild  storm  that  buffets  and  harries 
This  lone  bird  about  in  the  West 

Lifts  up  on  its  bosom  and  carries 
Another  bird  safe  to  her  nest. 

IX 

Ah!  the  span  of  the  heavens  is  spacious — 
Clear  sky  is  vouchsafed  to  the  blind — 

The  bitterest  griefs  are  made  gracious — 
The  crudest  fate  rendered  kind. 

x 

Clasp  the  hands  of  the  old  who  are  going, 
Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 

For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 


Biographical  109 

Again,  in  love  of  childhood,  he  wrote  these  two  poems: 

JULIETTE1 
[Laurel  Grove  Cemetery] 

Lo !  here  the  sunshine  flickers  bright 

Among  the  restless  shadows, 
And  undulating  waves  of  light 

Slip  through  the  tranquil  meadows. 

The  hoary  trees  stand  ranged  about, 
Their  damp  gray  mosses  trailing, 

Like  ghostly  signals  long  hung  out 
For  succor  unavailing. 

And  marble  shafts  arise  here  and  there 

In  immemorial  places, 
Embalmed  in  nature's  bosom  fair 

And  chiseled  with  art's  graces. 

'Twas  here,  Juliette,  you  watched  the  skies 

Burn  into  evening's  splendor, 
And  saw  the  sunset's  wondrous  dies 

Fade  into  twilight  tender, 

And  saw  the  gray  go  out  in  gloom 

Upon  the  brow  of  evening, 
And  watched  to  see  the  young  stars  bloom 

In  the  far  fields  of  heaven. 

So  comes  the  winter's  breath,  and  so 
The  spring  renews  her  grasses — 

I  lift  my  dazzled  eyes,  and  lo ! 
The  mirage  swiftly  passes. 

Dear  child !  for  many  a  weary  year 

The  rose  has  shed  her  blossom 
Upon  the  tablet  resting  here 

Above  thy  tranquil  bosom. 

^irst  published  in  the  Savannah  Morning  News.  Republished  in 
the  Atlanta  Constitution,  January  14,  1877,  and  in  the  Saturday  Eve 
ning  Post,  April  21,  1900,  also  in  Uncle  Remus's  Magazine. 


1 10  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

And  many  a  season  here  hath  brought 

Processions  of  newcomers, 
And  many  a  wonder  death  hath  wrought 

Through  all  these  fervid  summers. 

And  naught  remains  of  thee,  Juliette, 

Thy  face  and  form  Elysian, 
Save  what  the  whole  world  will  forget — 

A  dreamer's  dubious  vision. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 

IN  MEMORIAL 

ADDIE  E.  SMITH,  BLACKSHEAR,  GEORGIA,  AGED  ELEVEN  YEARS, 
DIED  MAY  23,  1876. 


Dear  child !  a  stranger,  mourning, 
Slips  from  the  worldly  throng 

To  weave  and  place  beside  thee 
This  poor  frayed  wreath  of  song. 

O'er  him  the  seasons  falter, 

The  long  days  come  and  go, 
And  Fate's  swift-moving  fingers 

Fly  restless  to  and  fro. 

O'er  thee,  the  west  wind,  sighing, 
Slow  sways  the  clumb'rous  pine ; 

And  through  the  shifting  shadows 
The  bright  stars  gently  shine. 

II 

When  Springtime's  murmurous  gladness 

Filled  all  the  listening  air, 
And  old  Earth's  rarest  favors 

Bloomed  fresh  and  sweet  and  fair ; 


Published  in  the  Monroe  'Advertiser,  Forsyth,  Georgia,  July  4, 
1876.    Compare  "Obituary,"  Part  II.,  page  164. 


Biographical  1 1 1 

When  waves  of  perfumed  sunshine 

Rolled  o'er  the  ripening  wheat, 
May  laid  her  [ ?]  of  blossoms 

At  Summer's  waiting  feet. 

And  Nature's  pulses  bounded 

As  though  infused  with  wine; 
Life  was  the  season's  token, 

Life  was  the  season's  sign. 

And  yet — ah  me !  the  mystery 

Of  this  unbroken  rest! — 
June  sheds  her  thousand  roses 

Above  thy  pulseless  breast. 

Bright  hopes  nor  fond  endeavor, 

Love's  passion  nor  Life's  pain, 
Shall  stir  thy  dreamless  slumber 

Or  waken  thee  again. 

in 

The  fragrance  of  the  primrose, 

That  opens  fresh  and  fair 
In  the  deep  dusk  of  evening, 

Still  haunts  the  morning  air. 

The  songs  the  wild-bird  warbles 

With  nature's  art  and  grace 
Are  wafted  on  forever 

Through  the  vast  realms  of  peace. 

Dear  child,  thy  pure  life's  cadence, 

A  sad,  yet  sweet  refrain, 
Shall  wake  the  hearts  now  broken 

To  life  and  hope  again 

And  fall,  a  benediction, 

When,  at  the  day's  decline, 
Pale  Sorrow,  low  bending, 

Weeps  at  Affection's  shrine. 


H2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Colonel  Thompson's  influence  upon  the  career  of  Harris 
must  be  reckoned.  When  the  News  was  established,  in 
1850,  Thompson  became  editor;  and  for  over  thirty  years, 
while  more  than  once  the  proprietorship  of  the  paper 
changed,  he  remained  editor.  He  had  begun  his  editorial 
work  with  a  literary  periodical  published  in  Madison  and 
Atlanta.  In  1840  he  had  published  "Major  Jones's  Court 
ship,"  then  "Major  Jones's  Sketches  of  Travel,"  and,  in 
1843,  "Major  Jones's  Chronicles  of  Pineville."  These  books 
were  immensely  popular.  "Major  Jones,"  with  his  humor — 
broad,  grotesque,  sometimes  coarse  and  vulgar — became  a 
character  familiar  throughout  the  country.  The  first  of  the 
three  books,  at  least,  is  well  known  to-day.  So  with  min 
gled  modesty  and  pride  Mr.  Harris  must  have  read  on  one 
page  of  Davidson's  "Living  Writers  of  the  South"  the 
sketch  of  Colonel  Thompson  and  on  another  page  the 
sketch  of  himself.  And  while  still  moved  by  literary  aspi 
ration,  he  went  to  Savannah,  anticipating,  we  may  well  fan 
cy,  intimate  association  with  not  only  the  dean  of  Georgia 
editors,  but  also  the  leading  humorist  in  the  literature  of  his 
section.  Mr.  Duncan,  who  had  daily  observation  of  the  two 
men,  says  they  were  congenial.  Mrs.  Harris  says :  "I  have 
often  heard  Mr.  Harris  say  that  Colonel  Thompson  was 
always  kind  and  affectionate  in  his  manner  toward  him  and 
that  he  seemed  to  be  as  deeply  interested  in  the  success  of 
his  work  as  if  he  had  been  his  own  kinsman."1  Upon  more 
than  one  occasion,  soon  after  Mr.  Harris  had  left  Savannah, 
Colonel  Thompson  published  such  an  appreciation  of  his 
former  associate's  literary  talent  as  to  indicate  a  most  inti 
mate  knowledge  of  his  abilities.2  May  it  not  be  safely  as- 


aMrs.  Harris,  letter  dated  February  22,  1915. 
2In  the  Savannah  News,  1878,  as  quoted  earlier,  page  106,  and  as 
quoted  later,  page  123. 


My  Dear  Friend: 


Biographical.  97 

SAVANNAH,  June  4,  1872. 


I  have  often  thought  that  my  ideas  were  in  some  degree 
distorted  and  tinged  with  a  coloring  of  romance  fatal  to  any 
practical  ambition.  But  if  it  is  to  be  so,  so  be  it.  You  may 
be  sure  that  I  will  cling  to  my  idiosyncrasies.  They  are  a 
part  of  me,  and  I  am  a  part  of  them.  They  are  infinitely 
soothing,  and  I  would  not  be  without  them  for  the  world. 
Why,  sometimes,  do  you  know,  I  give  myself  up  to  the 
sweet  indolence  of  thinking  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  at  such 
times  I  am  supremely  and  ineffably  happy — happy  whether 
my  thoughts  are  tinged  with  regret  or  flushed  with  hope. 
Not  the  least  of  my  pleasures  is  the  pleasure  of  melancholy. 
Sorrow  is  sometimes  sweet — always  sweet  when  it  brings 
back  to  us,  through  the  unexplorable  caverns  of  the  nights 
that  have  fled,  some  dear  dead  face,  the  tone  of  some  silent 
voice.  Those  who  have  not  groped  through  the  mystery  of 
pain,  who  have  not  been  wrapped  about  with  the  amber  fogs 
of  sorrow,  have  not  experienced  the  grandest  developments 
of  this  life,  and  from  my  soul  I  pity  them. 

Nearly  akin  to  these  things  is  another  experience  of  mine, 
and  it  is  very  curious.  When  I  was  about  six  years  old,  I 
went  with  my  mother  to  the  funeral  of  my  grandmother; 
and  the  first  words  that  the  preacher  said — and  the  only  ones 
that  I  remember — have  sung  in  my  ears  from  that  day  to 
this.  I  have  never  forgotten  them  for  a  single  moment. 
They  are  present  with  me  at  all  times  and  under  all  circum 
stances.  No  matter  what  I  do,  what  I  say,  nor  where  I 
turn,  these  words  are  running  in  my  mind  like  an  undertone 
of  sweet  music :  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith 
the  Lord."  I  often  say  it  aloud,  unintentionally  and  uncon 
sciously.  In  my  copy  books  which  I  used  at  school  it  is 
written  hundreds  of  times.  In  my  composition  book  it  oc 
cupies  every  available  place :  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life,  saith  the  Lord."  .  .  . 

If  you  only  knew  how  precious  your  letters  are,  how  they 
are  read  and  reread,  you  would  not  think  the  time  spent  in 
writing  them  altogether  thrown  away. 

I  inclose  you  a  copy  of  "A  Remembrance."  It  is  crude 
7 


98  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

enough,  both  in  thought  and  in  expression ;  but  the  invaria 
ble  result  of  all  of  my  attempts  at  elaboration  is  to  consign 
everything  to  the  wastebasket.  Speaking  of  attempts  at 
verse-building  reminds  me  to  tell  you  that  "Nora  Belle"  has 
been  copied  from  one  end  of  the  South  to  the  other,  and 
the  Western  papers  are  now  taking  it  up.  I  learn  through  a 
friend  that  General  Toombs  has  spoken  very  highly  of  it, 
and  through  another  that  Paul  Hayne,  the  poet,  character 
ized  it  as  "very  fine." 

I  am  never  more  lonely  than  when  in  a  crowd. 

Now,  as  always,  faithfully  your  friend,      J.  C.  HARRIS/ 

These  letters  to  Mrs.  Starke  indicate  the  powerful  period 
of  introspection  through  which  he  was  passing.  The  expe 
rience  was  essential,  but  he  must  be  saved  from  morbidness. 
While  he  was  assured  of  success  in  his  profession,  and  his 
ambition  and  hope  were  high,  still  he  was  conscious  of 
"something  wanting";  the  place  "lacked  something."  It 
was  something  to  lift  him  out  of  himself  that  was  needed. 
The  lack  was  in  his  heart ;  and  there  was  wanting,  not  some 
thing,  but  some  one.  Romance,  which  had  '  'tinged  his 
ideas,"  should  now  become  part  of  his  life.  He  needed  now 
more  than  friendship  alone;  he  needed  love.  But  the  soci 
ety  of  young  ladies  was  for  him  a  thing  unknown  and  not 
to  be  contemplated.  Feeling  that  he  had  no  personal  attrac 
tions,  having  a  horror  of  strangers,  and  afflicted  with  sensi 
tiveness,  social  embarrassment  was  the  dread  of  his  life, 
and  habitually  he  sought  the  seclusion  of  his  daily  and 
nightly  newspaper  work.  "  'Mingled  in  society?'"  replies 
Mrs.  Starke.  "That  is  a  joke,  if  it  were  not  so  serious."2 

Yet,  as  the  world  has  since  come  to  know,  he  had  a  heart 

1Letter  to  Mrs.  Starke,  dated  Savannah,  Georgia,  June  4,  1872. 
2Letter  dated  Atlanta,  March  19,  1915. 


Biographical.  99 

fashioned  only  to  love.  This  we  see  through  these  letters, 
and  from  such  a  heart  occasionally  flowed  revealing  lyrics. 
Of  "A  Remembrance"  Mrs.  Starke  writes:  "Mr.  Harris 
was  visiting  my  mother  on  Capitol  Avenue  [Atlanta] ;  and 
one  moonlight  evening,  while  he  was  lying  out  on  the  lawn, 
the  singing  of  my  sister,  Miss  Nora  Harrison,  must  have 
touched  him."1 

A  REMEMBRANCE3 
(Atlanta,  1871) 

I 

Soft,  low,  and  sweet,  yet  clear  and  strong, 
Rose  the  rich  volume  of  your  song; 
While  on  the  languid  August  air, 
That  swept  your  face  and  stirred  your  hair, 
Invoked  as  by  some  magic  spell, 
Wild  gusts  of  music  rose  and  fell. 
In  the  vague  hollows  of  the  night 
The  calm  stars  swung  steadfastly  bright; 
A  bird,  belated  in  the  gloom, 
Flew  nestward  with  bedraggled  plume; 
A  star  shook  loose  her  fiery  train 
And  swept  across  the  sapphire  plain — 
Then  all  was  still,  except  the  strong, 
Rich  distone  of  your  sweet  song. 

ii 

I  stood  entranced ;  my  soul  was  bound ; 
Melodious  thralls  enwrapt  me  round. 

*Letter  dated  Atlanta,  July  24,  1915.  (Miss  Harrison  later  became 
Mrs.  E.  Y.  Clarke.) 

2  A  copy  of  this  poem  was  furnished  by  Mrs.  Starke.  It  was  pub 
lished  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution  December  5,  1876,  with  four  ver 
bal  changes,  as  follows:  In  line  ten  flew — swept;  line  12,  swept — 
shot;  line  13,  Then — And;  line  14,  distone — harmony;  and  the  date 
was  printed  1873. 


ioo  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

I  lived  again  the  wild,  uncouth, 
Dear,  devious  days  of  my  lost  youth ; 
But  floods  of  song  swept  in  and  drowned 
The  old-time  singers,  sorrow-crowned. 
I  saw  once  more  the  friends  of  old 
And  heard  their  voices  manifold; 
The  waste,  wan  years  slipped  slowly  by, 
With  many  a  change  of  sea  and  sky, 
With  many  a  change  of  form  and  hue, 
And  left  me  happy  there  with  you. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 

These  lines,  written  in  the  summer  of  1871,  show  unmis 
takably  that  the  young  man  was  responding  to  romantic 
promptings.  Within  a  few  weeks,  from  the  far-away  North 
directly  to  Savannah,  came  a  beautiful  sixteen-year-old 
French-Canadian  girl.  Her  father,  a  sea  captain,  had  moved 
to  Savannah  when  he  began  conducting  a  steamship  business 
from  that  point.  She  had  now  graduated  from  the  school 
at  St.  Hyacinth  Convent,  near  Montreal,  and  was  to  spend 
the  winter  with  her  parents,  who  were  living  in  a  boarding 
place  where  Mr.  Harris  lived.  We  may  imagine  with  what 
utter  confusion  the  young  editor  met  her.  However,  much 
against  his  will  at  first,  he  was  occasionally  thrown  in  her 
company.  Her  natural,  frank  manner  soon  relieved  his 
embarrassment.  Her  spirit  and  vivacity  attracted  him.  He 
began  to  linger  after  meals  when  she  was  around.  He  be 
came  bold  enough  to  tease  her.  They  matched  wits  daily. 
With  the  approach  of  summer  she  went  away  to  the  North, 
and  he  was  grieved.  They  had  agreed  to  correspond;  but 
when  she  did  not  write  often,  he  charged  her  with  neglect, 
and  the  correspondence  ceased. 

In  the  fall  she  returned  with  added  graces  and  beauty, 
accompanied  by  the  rumor  of  a  suitor  in  Canada.  The 
young  editor  was  eager  to  capitulate  and,  when  given  an 
excuse,  gladly  forgot  his  late  pique.  He  sought  her  com- 


Biographical.  101 

pany  after  the  noon  meal  each  day  and  one  evening  a  week 
when  free  from  work.  In  her  presence  he  was  no  longer 
self-conscious,  but  wholly  at  ease  and  happy.  Any  one  who 
knows  Mrs.  Harris  to-day  can  understand  why  this  was  so. 
Unaffected,  sincere,  gentle,  sympathetic,  adapting  herself 
without  effort  to  her  company,  full  of  life,  and  ready  with 
wit,  hers  were  the  best  of  French  qualities,  which  balanced 
charmingly  with  the  marked  racial  characteristics  of  the 
young  Saxon.  Their  hearts  joined  in  comradeship.  Rising 
responsively  from  his  timidity  and  awkwardness,  Joel  Har 
ris  became  the  ardent  lover.  And  before  the  winter  was 
over  she  had  promised  to  marry  him. 

Captain  LaRose,  though  away  from  home  much  of  the 
time,  suspected  the  editor's  attentions,  was  wary,  and, 
when  in  the  city,  steered  his  daily  course  far  in  the  offing. 
But  there  came  a  day  when  Mr.  Harris  opportunely  distin 
guished  his  retreating  footsteps,  pursued  him  through  the 
hallway,  and  overtook  him  at  the  doorsteps. 

"Too  young !"  the  seaman  blustered.  "She  knows  nothing 
of  housekeeping.  Both  of  you  are  too  young  to  take  care  of 
yourselves." 

"I  can  take  care  of  her,"  protested  the  suitor. 

"Well,  if  she  wants  to  marry  you,  I  leave  it  with  her," 
were  the  happy  words  that  ended  the  pointed  conversation. 

The  fond  father  tempted  his  daughter  with  a  proffered  trip 
abroad,  to  France  and  other  European  countries,  but  she  pre 
ferred  to  marry.  In  the  parlor  of  the  boarding  house,  on 
April  21,  1873,  was  solemnized  in  a  quiet  manner  the  mar 
riage  of  Esther  LaRose,  aged  eighteen,  and  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  aged  twenty-four.  A  bridal  trip  to  North  Georgia, 
cut  short  by  an  unseasonable  spell  of  weather,  was  extended 
during  the  following  summer  into  Canada.  The  young 
couple  did  not  undertake  housekeeping,  but  continued  to 


IO2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

board  in  the  same  place,  101  Broughton  Street,  as  long  as 
Savannah  was  their  home.1 

Mr.  Harris's  marriage  came  just  halfway  in  the  period  of 
his  residence  in  Savannah.  His  six  years  there  were  marked 
by  intense  devotion  to  his  newspaper  work.  It  was  particu 
larly  his  brisk  little  paragraphs  in  the  Advertiser  that  had 
advanced  him  to  the  News,2  and  the  punster  of  The  Coun 
tryman  became  the  paragraph  editor  of  the  great  city  daily. 
His  chief  duty  was  to  gather  news  items  from  the  exchanges 
and  prepare  for  each  issue  of  the  paper  two  columns,  headed 
"Affairs  in  Georgia"  and  "Florida  Affairs."3  Through  the 
files  of  the  News  one  quickly  discovers  that  for  him  it  was 
not  a  mere  matter  of  sitting  with  scissors  and  paste  pot, 
clipping  the  news  from  other  papers,  pasting  the  clippings 
on  copy  paper,  and  having  little  Frank  L.  Stanton  take  them 
to  the  composing  room.  He  applied  mind  and  heart  to  this 
special  feature  of  his,  so  that  his  humorous  and  ridiculous 
comments  on  persons  and  incidents  became  the  joy  of  the 
thousands  who  never  failed  to  read  these  columns.  In  addi 
tion,  he  often  shared  the  work  of  the  regular  editorial  page 
and  contributed  to  other  columns  various  matter  of  his  own 
composition.  Mr.  Stanton  to-day  recalls  how  often  he  got 
interested  in  something  in  the  paper  and  later  found  that  it 
was  Mr.  Harris  who  had  written  it.4  Mr.  Duncan  says  of 
Mr.  Harris : 


aThis  account  of  the  romance  and  marriage  of  Miss  LaRose  and 
Mr.  Harris  is  based  on  a  relation  of  the  same  by  Mrs.  Harris  Janu 
ary  I,  1916.  The  Savannah  Directory  of  1874-75  gives :  Harris,  Joel 
C,  assistant  editor  of  Morning  News,  boards  101  Broughton  Street ; 
LaRose,  Peter,  steamboat  captain,  residence  101  Broughton  Street 

$Mrs.  Starke ;  letter  dated  Atlanta,  Georgia,  March  19,  1915. 

*Oral  statements  of  Mr.  A.  McD.  Duncan,  Mr.  T.  K.  Oglesby,  and 
others. 

4Oral  statement  of  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


Biographical.  103 

He  appeared  lazy,  but  worked  hard  day  and  night  at  his 
desk.  When  a  paragraph  or  article  appeared  in  an  exchange 
that  invited  special  attention,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Colonel 
Thompson  called  on  Mr.  Harris  for  an  editorial  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  so  possibly  began  his  writings  in  a  systematic  way. 
Mr.  Harris  and  Colonel  Thompson  were  of  very  different 
temperaments,  but  were  congenial  and  worked  together  har 
moniously. 

From  the  Georgia  and  Florida  columns  two  or  three  para 
graphs  are  here  taken  at  random.  They  are,  of  course,  mere 
newspaper  work  at  its  farthest  point  of  separation  from 
work  of  literary  quality.  But  this  feature  in  the  newspa 
pers,  then  being  first  developed,  was,  as  it  still  is,  exceeding 
ly  effective  in  catching  the  interest  of  the  great  body  of 
subscribers ;  and  so  Mr.  Harris  had  to  supply  the  unrelent 
ing  daily  demand  for  twenty-five  to  fifty  such  items : 

Col.  H.  Whiffletree  Grady,  of  the  Atlanta  Herald,  has 
found  time  between  his  editorial  and  poetic  recreations  to 
invent  a  new  design  for  a  chicken  coop.  The  superstructure 
will  be  tested  at  the  next  State  fair. 

[July  6,  1874.] 

Lochrane  refuses  to  run  against  Freeman  for  Congress  in 
the  Atlanta  District  on  the  ground  that  the  latter  is  his  un 
cle  or  brother-in-law  or  something  of  that  sort.  Now, 
what  son  of  a  breech-loading  air  gun  will  rise  and  say  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  ties  of  consanguinity? 

[July  6,  1874.] 

One  with  an  eye  for  prophecy  may  note  with  satisfaction 
the  prominence  given  to  absurd  comments  on  negro  inci 
dents  : 

A  colored  emigrant  bound  for  Arkansas  got  into  a  dispute 
with  a  Macon  negro  the  other  day  and  was  promptly  vacci 
nated. 

[January  4,  1873.] 


IO4  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

A  Lumpkin  negro  seriously  injured  his  pocketknife  re 
cently  by  undertaking  to  stab  a  colored  brother  in  the  head. 
[January  6,  1873.] 

The  most  effective  of  these  paragraphs  were  of  immediate 
interest  only,  depending  upon  the  reader's  familiarity  with 
men  and  affairs  of  that  day,  and  so  cannot  be  generally  ap 
preciated  to-day.  In  the  first  given  above,  for  instance,  the 
person  referred  to  was  Henry  Woodfin  Grady,  the  great 
journalist  and  orator,  with  whom  Harris  was  two  years  later 
to  be  associated  on  the  Atlanta  Constitution  staff.  There 
was  carried  on  among  the  newspaper  men,  then  even  more 
than  now,  a  constant  cross-fire  of  wit,  in  which  Harris  took 
the  lead.  Among  themselves  they  knew,  too,  Harris's  epi 
grammatic  work  that  appeared  from  time  to  time  on  the 
editorial  page  (examples  of  which  one  may  not  to-day  ven 
ture  to  identify),  and  they  hailed  him  as  the  master  para- 
graphist.  The  Atlanta  Constitution  paid  him  tribute  as  fol 
lows  : 

JINKS  CONUNDRUM  HARRIS 

AN  ILLUSTRATED  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  ONE  OF  GEORGIA'S 
FUNNY  MEN 

We  gave  our  readers  a  few  days  ago  an  extract  detailing 
the  history  of  one  Mr.  Bailey,  whose  humorous  paragraphs 
in  a  little  provincial  weekly  in  New  England  called  the  Dan- 
bury  News  have  made  the  paper  and  the  man  famous  over 
the  Union. 

We  give  to-day  to  our  readers  a  sketch  of  a  young  man 
connected  with  the  Georgia  press,  whose  humor,  in  its  way, 
is,  in  our  judgment,  equally  as  racy  as  that  of  the  Danbury 
joker.  We  say  this  in  seriousness.  Harris's  humor  has 
made  his  paper,  the  Savannah  News,  noted  for  the  sparkle 
of  its  Georgia  column. 

The  following  is  an  accurate  photograph  of  Harris  in 
structing  some  of  his  numerous  imitators.  [A  cartoon  by 
E.  Purcell  represents  the  giant  figure  of  Harris  with  arm 
extended  above  three  small  figures.  Then  follows  a  bur- 


Biographical  105 

lesque  biographical  sketch  relating  Harris  to  Rabelais,  Fal- 
staff,  and  Mark  Twain,  emphasizing  the  exuberance  of  his 
fun,  and  concluding  as  follows  :] 

But  we  must  stop.  The  very  suggestion  of  Harris  sets 
our  paper  to  capering  with  laughter,  our  table  to  cutting  up 
comical  didos,  pen  to  dancing  a  kind  of  Highland  fling.  The 
following  are  distinguished  specimens  of  Harris's  jokes. 
He  has  them  all  patented : 

"A  Rome  man  wants  an  air-line,  narrow-gauge  canal  be 
tween  Baltimore  and  New  Orleans.  We  were  just  talking 
about  this  thing  the  other  day.  If  Rome  don't  have  it 
erected,  hanged  if  we  don't  put  a  couple  of  able-bodied  ne 
groes  to  work  on  it  immediately  and  thus  receive  the  copy 
right." 

"The  man  with  the  ink  eraser  was  in  Macon  the  other  day. 
The  humblest  citizen  is,  by  this  noble  invention,  put  upon  a 
war  footing  and  can  at  once  proceed  to  raise  checks  with 
perfect  impunity." 

"Col.  I.  W.  Avery,  of  the  Constitution,  has  purchased  a 
new  pair  of  silver-plated  gutta-percha  garters.  He  is  now  of 
the  opinion  that  women  should  be  allowed  to  vote,  without 
regard  to  sex."1 

There  is  left  to  us  no  way  of  determining  what  "heavy" 
editorials  were  written  by  Mr.  Harris ;  but,  upon  the  opinion 
of  men  like  Mr.  Duncan  and  Mr.  Oglesby,  it  may  be  as 
sumed  that  he  did  a  considerable  amount  of  such  writing. 
There  are  preserved  in  his  "Census"  scrapbook  clippings  of 
his  traveling  correspondence  from  Indian  Spring,  Griffin, 
Barnesville,  Gainesville,  Tallulah  Falls,  and  Atlanta,  repre 
senting  pleasure  trips,  press  conventions,  agricultural  con 
ventions,  and  politics.  All  of  the  writing  for  the  News  was 
done  with  a  skill  that  gratified  the  senior  editor,  who,  soon 


aThe  Atlanta  Constitution,  April  23,  1873.     Reproduced,  in  part, 
by  the  Monroe  Advertiser,  April  29,  1873. 


io6  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

after  Mr.  Harris  had  moved  to  Atlanta,  expressed  through 
his  editorial  columns  the  following  appreciation : 

The  Atlanta  Constitution  announces  that  it  will  shortly 
commence  in  its  weekly  issue  the  publication  of  a  serial 
story  ...  by  our  friend  and  late  associate,  Mr.  J.  C. 
Harris.  As  a  graceful  and  versatile  writer,  Mr.  Harris  has 
few  equals  in  the  South,  whilst  with  inventive  genius  of  a 
high  order  he  combines  rare  powers  of  description,  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  genial  humor,  and  caustic  wit.1 

Mr.  H.  H.  Cabaniss,  who  had  become  editor  of  the  Mon 
roe  Advertiser,  characterized  him  at  this  time  as  a  "brilliant 
paragraphist,  an  able  political  writer,  and  a  man  of  rare 
versatility  of  talent."2 

Mr.  Harris's  success  as  an  editor,  indeed,  now  became  the 
danger  in  the  way  of  his  literary  career.  From  his  early 
years  he  had  given  much  study  to  literature  and  had  pro 
posed  to  become  himself  an  author.  But  now  he  was  being 
forced  into  a  very  practical  consideration  of  life.  In  1874 
his  first  son,  Julian,  was  born,  and  in  1875  another,  Lucien. 
Captain  LaRose  was  anxious  to  set  him  up  in  an  independ 
ent  newspaper  business,  but  his  pride  would  not  allow  him 
to  accept  assistance  from  his  father-in-law.8  He  had  to 
work  hard,  day  and  night,  to  cover  the  task  of  his  regular 
employment,  whereby  he  made  a  livelihood  for  his  family 
and  assisted  his  mother.  Consequently  there  was  no  time 
left  for  the  development  of  purely  literary  talent.  Then, 
too,  he  had  risen  steadily  in  his  profession,  until  he  was 
heralded  as  one  of  Georgia's  most  promising  journalists. 
So  why  should  he  turn  aside  to  uncertain  literary  pursuits? 
But  while  he  no  longer  contemplated  this,  his  unbroken  in- 

1W.  T.  Thompson,  Savannah  Morning  News,  March,  1878. 
2H.  H.  Cabaniss,  Monroe  Advertiser,  November  28,   1876.     See 
pages  75,  76. 

"Oral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 


Biographical  107 

tellectual  habits  were  such  as  to  promote  his  fitness  for  a 
literary  career.  He  read  extensively  and  practiced  all  kinds 
of  written  composition.  Seeking  access  to  a  library,  he 
became  a  member  of  the  Georgia  Historical  Society  (found 
ed  in  Savannah  in  I839).1  We  have  seen  how  Colonel 
Thompson  distinguished  his  particular  merits  as  a  writer — 
"wit,"  "humor,"  "grace,"  "descriptive  power,"  "invention," 
"versatility."  Of  his  abiding  interest  in  versification  there 
is  evidence  of  a  later  date  than  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Starke  in 
1872."  For  example,  at  the  head  of  the  first  column  on  the 
front  page  of  the  News  of  January  I,  1874,  appeared  ten 
stanzas  based  on  one  of  his  New  Orleans  poems,  "The  Old 
and  the  New" : 

JANUARY  i,  1874* 

I 
Clasp  the  hands  of  those  who  are  going, 

Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 
For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

II 
Greet  the  New  Year  with  music  and  laughter, 

Let  the  Old  pass  away  with  a  tear ; 
For  we  shall  remember,  hereafter, 

The  many  who  die  with  the  year; 

in 
And  the  songs  of  the  children  of  Sorrow 

Shall  unite  with  the  echoes  of  mirth 
Ere4he  sweet,  glad  sun  of  to-morrow 

Smiles  down  on  the  night-smitten  earth. 

*Mr.  William  Harden,  the  present  librarian,  has  found  record  of 
Mr.  Harris's  membership.  Until  1875  its  library  was  not  open  to  the 
public,  and  the  membership  fee  was  ten  dollars. 

2See  page  98. 

8The  Savannah  Morning  News,  January  I,  1874.  Compare  page 
73- 


io8  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

IV 

And  the  meek  and  stricken  daughters  of  Anguish 
Shall  lift  their  sharp  burthens  of  pain 

And  long,  as  they  linger  and  languish, 
For  Christ's  blessed  presence  again. 

v 
For  time  has  struck  down  the  heart's  idols — 

The  fairest,  the  dearest  have  died — 
And  Death  hath  gone  grimly  to  bridals 

And  claimed  the  first  kiss  of  the  bride. 

VI 

But  the  glory  of  noon  and  the  gray-light 
Are  gathered  and  mingled  in  one, 

And  the  darkness  of  dawn  and  the  daylight 
Precede  the  approach  of  the  sun. 

VII 

A  poor  mother  bird  is  oft  lifted 

From  the  storm-shaken  bough  where  she  clung 
And  cruelly  driven  and  drifted 

Far  away  from  her  nest-full  of  young. 

VIII 

But  the  wild  storm  that  buffets  and  harries 
This  lone  bird  about  in  the  West 

Lifts  up  on  its  bosom  and  carries 
Another  bird  safe  to  her  nest. 

IX 

Ah!  the  span  of  the  heavens  is  spacious- 
Clear  sky  is  vouchsafed  to  the  blind — 

The  bitterest  griefs  are  made  gracious— 
The  crudest  fate  rendered  kind. 

X 

Clasp  the  hands  of  the  old  who  are  going, 
Kiss  the  lips  that  are  raised  to  be  kissed, 

For  the  life  of  the  Old  Year  is  flowing 
And  melting  away  in  the  mist. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 


Biographical  109 

Again,  in  love  of  childhood,  he  wrote  these  two  poems: 

JULIETTE1 
[Laurel  Grove  Cemetery] 

Lo !  here  the  sunshine  flickers  bright 

Among  the  restless  shadows, 
And  undulating  waves  of  light 

Slip  through  the  tranquil  meadows. 

The  hoary  trees  stand  ranged  about, 
Their  damp  gray  mosses  trailing, 

Like  ghostly  signals  long  hung  out 
For  succor  unavailing. 

And  marble  shafts  arise  here  and  there 

In  immemorial  places, 
Embalmed  in  nature's  bosom  fair 

And  chiseled  with  art's  graces. 

'Twas  here,  Juliette,  you  watched  the  skies 

Burn  into  evening's  splendor, 
And  saw  the  sunset's  wondrous  dies 

Fade  into  twilight  tender, 

And  saw  the  gray  go  out  in  gloom 

Upon  the  brow  of  evening, 
And  watched  to  see  the  young  stars  bloom 

In  the  far  fields  of  heaven. 

So  comes  the  winter's  breath,  and  so 
The  spring  renews  her  grasses — 

I  lift  my  dazzled  eyes,  and  lo ! 
The  mirage  swiftly  passes. 

Dear  child !  for  many  a  weary  year 

The  rose  has  shed  her  blossom 
Upon  the  tablet  resting  here 

Above  thy  tranquil  bosom. 

*First  published  in  the  Savannah  Morning  News.  Republished  in 
the  Atlanta  Constitution,  January  14,  1877,  and  in  the  Saturday  Eve 
ning  Post,  April  21,  1900,  also  in  Uncle  Remus' s  Magazine. 


1 10  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

And  many  a  season  here  hath  brought 

Processions  of  newcomers, 
And  many  a  wonder  death  hath  wrought 

Through  all  these  fervid  summers. 

And  naught  remains  of  thee,  Juliette, 

Thy  face  and  form  Elysian, 
Save  what  the  whole  world  will  forget — 

A  dreamer's  dubious  vision. 

J.  C.  HARRIS. 

IN  MEMORIAM1 

ADDIE  E.  SMITH,  BLACKSHEAR,  GEORGIA,  AGED  ELEVEN  YEARS, 
DIED  MAY  23,  1876. 


Dear  child !  a  stranger,  mourning, 
Slips  from  the  worldly  throng 

To  weave  and  place  beside  thee 
This  poor  frayed  wreath  of  song. 

O'er  him  the  seasons  falter, 

The  long  days  come  and  go, 
And  Fate's  swift-moving  ringers 

Fly  restless  to  and  fro. 

O'er  thee,  the  west  wind,  sighing, 
Slow  sways  the  clumb'rous  pine ; 

And  through  the  shifting  shadows 
The  bright  stars  gently  shine. 

II 

When  Springtime's  murmurous  gladness 

Filled  all  the  listening  air, 
And  old  Earth's  rarest  favors 

Bloomed  fresh  and  sweet  and  fair; 

Published  in  the  Monroe  Advertiser,  Forsyth,  Georgia,  July  4, 
1876.    Compare  "Obituary,"  Part  II.,  page  164. 


Biographical  1 1 1 

When  waves  of  perfumed  sunshine 

Rolled  o'er  the  ripening  wheat, 
May  laid  her  [ ?]  of  blossoms 

At  Summer's  waiting  feet. 

And  Nature's  pulses  bounded 

As  though  infused  with  wine; 
Life  was  the  season's  token, 

Life  was  the  season's  sign. 

And  yet — ah  me !  the  mystery 

Of  this  unbroken  rest! — 
June  sheds  her  thousand  roses 

Above  thy  pulseless  breast. 

Bright  hopes  nor  fond  endeavor, 

Love's  passion  nor  Life's  pain, 
Shall  stir  thy  dreamless  slumber 

Or  waken  thee  again. 

in 

The  fragrance  of  the  primrose, 

That  opens  fresh  and  fair 
In  the  deep  dusk  of  evening, 

Still  haunts  the  morning  air. 

The  songs  the  wild-bird  warbles 

With  nature's  art  and  grace 
Are  wafted  on  forever 

Through  the  vast  realms  of  peace. 

Dear  child,  thy  pure  life's  cadence, 

A  sad,  yet  sweet  refrain, 
Shall  wake  the  hearts  now  broken 

To  life  and  hope  again 

And  fall,  a  benediction, 

When,  at  the  day's  decline, 
Pale  Sorrow,  low  bending, 

Weeps  at  Affection's  shrine. 


112  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Colonel  Thompson's  influence  upon  the  career  of  Harris 
must  be  reckoned.  When  the  News  was  established,  in 
1850,  Thompson  became  editor;  and  for  over  thirty  years, 
while  more  than  once  the  proprietorship  of  the  paper 
changed,  he  remained  editor.  He  had  begun  his  editorial 
work  with  a  literary  periodical  published  in  Madison  and 
Atlanta.  In  1840  he  had  published  "Major  Jones's  Court 
ship,"  then  "Major  Jones's  Sketches  of  Travel,"  and,  in 
1843,  "Major  Jones's  Chronicles  of  Pineville."  These  books 
were  immensely  popular.  "Major  Jones,"  with  his  humor — 
broad,  grotesque,  sometimes  coarse  and  vulgar — became  a 
character  familiar  throughout  the  country.  The  first  of  the 
three  books,  at  least,  is  well  known  to-day.  So  with  min 
gled  modesty  and  pride  Mr.  Harris  must  have  read  on  one 
page  of  Davidson's  "Living  Writers  of  the  South"  the 
sketch  of  Colonel  Thompson  and  on  another  page  the 
sketch  of  himself.  And  while  still  moved  by  literary  aspi 
ration,  he  went  to  Savannah,  anticipating,  we  may  well  fan 
cy,  intimate  association  with  not  only  the  dean  of  Georgia 
editors,  but  also  the  leading  humorist  in  the  literature  of  his 
section.  Mr.  Duncan,  who  had  daily  observation  of  the  two 
men,  says  they  were  congenial.  Mrs.  Harris  says :  "I  have 
often  heard  Mr.  Harris  say  that  Colonel  Thompson  was 
always  kind  and  affectionate  in  his  manner  toward  him  and 
that  he  seemed  to  be  as  deeply  interested  in  the  success  of 
his  work  as  if  he  had  been  his  own  kinsman."1  Upon  more 
than  one  occasion,  soon  after  Mr.  Harris  had  left  Savannah, 
Colonel  Thompson  published  such  an  appreciation  of  his 
former  associate's  literary  talent  as  to  indicate  a  most  inti 
mate  knowledge  of  his  abilities.2  May  it  not  be  safely  as- 


Harris,  letter  dated  February  22,  1915. 
*In  the  Savannah  News,  1878,  as  quoted  earlier,  page  106,  and  as 
quoted  later,  page  123. 


Biographical  113 

sumed,  then,  that  the  younger  writer  was  constrained,  by  the 
deep  interest  and  affectionate  manner  of  his  elder,  to  seek 
from  him  counsel  and  criticism?  There  was  between  the 
two  a  relationship  approaching,  to  some  extent,  that  which 
had  existed  between  Mr.  Harris  and  Mr.  Turner.  The  vet 
eran  editor,  familiar  with  every  feature  of  newspaper  work, 
must  have  taken  great  delight  in  stimulating  and  directing 
the  talented  young  man,  who  now  determined  by  unsparing 
industry  to  test  his  ability  in  the  field  of  journalism.  Mr. 
Harris's  powers  were  steadily  developed  during  the  six 
years  as  associate  editor  of  the  News,  until  he  became  estab 
lished  in  the  profession.  Colonel  Thompson  may  have  con 
tributed  also  more  directly  to  Mr.  Harris's  eventual  reali 
zation  of  his  earlier  dream  of  authorship.  He  had  in  his 
literary  production  effectively  illustrated  that  principle,  first 
taught  the  apprentice  by  Mr.  Turner  a  decade  before,  upon 
which  was  to  be  based  the  creation  of  a  true  and  worthy 
literature  of  the  South  or  of  any  section  or  country.  For 
"Major  Jones"  was  the  embodiment  of  the  uneducated 
white  "cracker,"  who  was  a  well-known  type  in  Georgia. 
With  his  humor  and  dialect,  he  was,  indeed,  succeeded  by 
"Uncle  Remus"  as  a  parallel  figure ;  and  it  is  not  impossi 
ble  that,  when  later  Mr.  Harris  came  to  delineate  the  negro, 
he  was  mindful  of  how  Mr.  Thompson  had  given  to  litera 
ture  the  other  Southern  type. 

However,  it  was  well  that  Mr.  Harris  was  each  year  given 
increased  freedom  from  the  daily  routine  of  his  work.  Va 
cations,  though  short,  were  helpful  to  him  in  preserving  his 
perspective.  The  meetings  of  the  Georgia  Press  Associa 
tion  were  always  refreshing.  Fortunately,  too,  he  was  de 
tailed  as  special  correspondent  in  Atlanta  for  the  News 
during  the  sessions  of  the  legislature.1  Here  he  renewed 

1Oral  statement  of  Mrs.  Harris. 

8 


1 14  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

his  associations  with  his  faithful  friend,  J.  P.  Harrison,  who 
had  moved  from  Forsyth,  and  warm  friendship  sprang  up 
with  men  like  Evan  P.  Howell  and  Henry  Grady.  Thus 
when  the  yellow  fever,  in  the  summer  of  1876,  drove  him 
from  Savannah,  the  way  was  easy  for  him  to  find  a  perma 
nent  home  in  Atlanta,  where  his  genius  was  soon  to  be  re 
leased  for  its  great  achievement. 


VII 

"  "T      C.  HARRIS,  wife,  two  sons,  and  bilious  nurse." 

Two  or  three  days  before  the  middle  of  Septem- 

*J  9   her,  1876,  a  reporter  for  the  Constitution  found  the 

above  notation  on  the  Kimball  House  register.1    An4  Joel 

Chandler  Harris  was  from  that  date  until  his  death,  in  1908, 

to  have  his  residence  in  Atlanta. 

However,  it  was  not  his  intention  at  that  time  to  sever 
his  connection  with  Savannah.  Rather  it  was  his  purpose 
to  see  his  wife  and  children  safely  located  beyond  the  danger 
of  yellow  fever,  which  was  then  raging  in  their  former 
home,  and  then  himself  steal  away  back  to  his  post  on  the 
News.2  But,  after  a  few  days  in  the  hotel,  the  family  was 
welcomed  into  the  hospitable  home  of  Mr.  Harris's  dear 
friend,  Mr.  J.  P.  Harrison,  who  had  moved,  in  1873,  from 
Forsyth  to  Decatur,3  a  suburb,  practically,  of  Atlanta. 
Here,  as  a  result  of  happy  developments,  Mr.  Harris  re 
mained,  along  with  his  family,  until  in  November,  when  they 
moved  to  become  next-door  neighbors  to  Capt.  Evan  P. 
Ho  well,  in  a  home  at  201  Whitehall  Street  ;  and  they  were 
henceforth  to  be  citizens  of  Atlanta. 

During  the  days  of  uncertainty  Mr.  Harris  did  some  cor 
respondence  for  the  News*  and,  being  well  known  to  the 
city  newspaper  men,  occasionally  made  some  contributions 


registration  at  the  Kimball  was  confirmed  by  Mrs.  Harris 
January  I,  1916.  See  Constitution,  September  14,  1876,  under  "Town 
Topics." 

2Oral  statement  by  Mrs.  Harris. 

^Constitution,  April  25,  1873. 

'Constitution,  October  20,  1876,  "Good  Joke  on  Harris." 


1 1 6  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

to  the  local  papers.    One  who  was  closely  associated  with 
him  during  those  weeks  has  the  following  to  say : 

When  he  "refugeed"  from  Savannah,  on  account  of  the 
yellow  fever  epidemic  there  in  1876,  and  came  to  Atlanta,  I 
became  more  intimately  acquainted  with  him.  I  was  then 
engaged  in  editorial  work  for  the  Franklin  Printing  and 
Publishing  Company,  of  which  Mr.  James  P.  Harrison  was 
the  President.  Mr.  Harrison  and  Mr.  Harris  were  old-time 
friends.  Mr.  Harrison  invited  Mr.  Harris  to  be  his  guest 
in  Decatur,  a  short  distance  from  Atlanta,  where  I  also  was 
frequently  a  visitor.  Occasionally  Mr.  Harris  and  myself 
occupied  the  same  room. 

Among  the  papers  published  by  the  Franklin  at  that  time 
was  one  called  The  Granger,  an  organ  of  the  Granger  Move 
ment  in  Georgia.  Mr.  Harrison  requested  Mr.  Harris  to 
make  himself  at  home  in  the  editorial  "den"  and  assist  in 
the  editorial  work  whenever  he  felt  like  it.  In  this  way,  for 
a  short  while,  I  enjoyed  Mr.  Harris's  companionship."1 

Captain  Howell,  of  the  Constitution,  who  had  for  some 
time  known  and  admired  Mr.  Harris,  said  to  him:  "You 
are  not  going  back  to  Savannah ;  you  are  going  to  stay  right 
here  and  join  the  Constitution's  staff."2  Very  soon  the  ex 
changes  began  to  detect  some  of  Harris's  contributions  to 
the  Constitution.3  Mr.  Harris  was  now  considering  whether 
he  should  accept  the  proposition  from  Captain  Howell.  In 
the  first  place,  he  told  his  wife  that  it  was  very  inconvenient 

^aj.  Charles  W.  Hubner,  in  a  letter  dated  Atlanta,  December  22, 

1915. 

2Mr.  Clark  Howell,  son  of  E.  P.,  in  an  oral  statement  July  15, 

1916,  gives  this  account. 

^Constitution,  November  24,  1876,  quoting  the  Talbotton  Standard: 
"J.  C.  Harris,  late  of  the  Savannah  News,  is  temporarily  on  the 
Constitution.  He  is  the  same  live  coal  of  genius  and  good  humor. 
Besides  being  a  hard  worker,  he  has  the  brightest  and  most  promis 
ing  intellect  in  the  State.  The  Constitution  will  certainly  make  a 
ten  strike  if  he  is  retained." 


Biographical  117 

to  be  fleeing  each  year  from  the  yellow  fever.  Furthermore, 
the  city  of  Atlanta  was  showing  such  wonderful  progress 
that  it  drew  to  it  young  men  of  high  ambition  and  filled  them 
with  inspiration.  During  the  decade  from  1870  to  1880  its 
population  was  nearly  doubled,  bringing  it  to  first  in  rank 
among  the  cities  of  the  State.1  The  Atlanta  Constitution 
was  being  named  throughout  the  country  as  a  great  spokes 
man  of  the  South.2  So,  after  buying  a  controlling  interest 
in  the  paper  within  a  few  weeks  from  Mr.  Harris's  arrival 
in  Atlanta,8  Captain  Howell  secured  the  consent  of  the  pop 
ular  young  journalist  to  join  his  editorial  staff/  On  No 
vember  21,  1876,  the  following  announcement  was  published 
in  the  editorial  column : 

The  fact  that  Mr.  J.  C.  Harris,  late  of  the  Savannah 
News,  has  been  temporarily  engaged  upon  the  Constitution 
for  some  weeks  past  has  been  frequently  alluded  to  by  sev 
eral  of  our  contemporaries.  We  are  glad  to  be  able  to  state 
to-day  that  we  have  made  permanent  arrangements  with  Mr. 
Harris,  and  henceforth  he  will  be  a  fixture  on  the  editorial 
staff  of  the  Constitution* 

A  flood  of  press  congratulations  poured  in  upon  the  Con- 
stitution  from  all  sections,  marking  the  high  esteem  in  which 


Census:  Atlanta— 1870,  21,000;  1880,  37,000.  Savannah— 1870, 
28,000;  1880,  30,000. 

2For  brief  accounts  of  Atlanta  and  of  the  Constitution,  see  Consti 
tution,  August  28,  1878,  and  October  7,  1879. 

3"How  the  Constitution  Is  Owned,"  Constitution,  August  17,  1884. 
See  also  brief  paragraph  notice  of  Howell  and  Grady,  October  19, 
1876.  Col.  E.  Y.  Clarke  retired  from  the  editorship  October  29,  1876. 

4Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris  named  their  next  child,  born  shortly  after 
wards,  Evan  Howell.  After  the  death  of  this  boy,  another  was 
named  Evelyn,  because,  says  Mrs.  Harris,  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Harris 
that  the  two  names  were  related. 

^Constitution,  November  21,  1876. 


n8  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Mr.  Harris  was  held  throughout  the  State  and  beyond.1  It 
was  primarily  as  a  paragraphist,  undoubtedly,  that  Mr.  Har 
ris  was  called  to  the  Constitution,  Captain  Howell  knowing 
full  well  that  he  could  also  do  any  other  kind  of  newspaper 
work  in  a  masterly  way.  Probably  the  temporary  engage 
ment  referred  to  in  the  above  announcement  began  about 
October  26;  for  on  that  date  there  appeared  in  the  paper  a 
new  column,  taking  the  place  of  "Georgia  Gossip,"  headed 
"Round  about  in  Georgia."  Personal  references  occurring 
in  this  column  from  time  to  time  thereafter,  in  addition 
to  the  distinctive  style,  enable  us  to  identify  the  editor/' 
It  was  filled  with  just  the  kind  of  paragraphic  notes  and 
comment  that  Mr.  Harris  had  made  so  popular  in  the  Sa 
vannah  Morning  News.  Besides  entertaining  thousands  of 
subscribers  through  the  sparkling  paragraphs,  the  great  At 
lanta  paper  was  through  this  column  kept  in  close  and  friend 
ly  touch  with  its  exchanges,  especially  the  county  weeklies. 
The  following  words,  published  in  the  column  April  7,  1877, 
show  that  Mr.  Harris,  probably  more  than  any  other  news 
paper  man,  had  sought  in  this  way  to  develop  among  the 
papers  and  cities  a  spirit  of  wholesome  rivalry  and  frater- 
nalism : 

Some  of  the  Georgia  weeklies  are  apparently  of  the  opin 
ion  that  we  have  some  ulterior  purpose  in  noticing  the  coun 
try  press  as  prominently  as  we  do,  and  a  few  of  them  allude 
to  it  as  a  "You-tickle-me-I-tickle-you"  business.  Ah,  well ! 
Those  who  entertain  such  ideas  ought  to  be  allowed  to  enjoy 
them.  It  has  been  the  purpose  of  the  writer  of  these  notices 
during  the  last  ten  years3  to  accord  to  the  country  press  of 

aFor  example,  see  Constitution,  November  30  and  December  2, 
1876,  quoting,  respectively,  from  the  Monroe  (Georgia)  Advertiser 
(H.  H.  Cabaniss,  editor)  and  the  Warrenton  (Georgia)  Clipper. 

*  Constitution,  November  8,  1876,  December  8,  1876,  April  7,  1877, 
September  17,  23,  1879,  etc. 

8Ten  years  earlier  he  was  with  the  Monroe  Advertiser. 


Biographical  1 19 

Georgia  such  recognition  of  its  ability,  influence,  and  serv 
ices  to  the  State  as  it  might  seem  to  deserve,  and  he  is  not  at 
this  late  day  to  be  deterred  by  the  unworthy  suspicion  of  a 
few  who  have  no  higher  idea  of  their  own  calling  than  to 
suppose  that  the  good  will  and  esteem  of  the  editor  of  a 
country  weekly  can  be  purchased  by  a  puff.  There  is  a  "true 
inwardness"  in  such  suspicion  so  palpable  that  we  need  not 
take  the  trouble  to  comment  upon  it. 

Occasionally  he  used  a  friendly  thrust : 
Savannah  has  had  her  regular  triweekly  robbery. 

Tramps  are  arriving  in  Savannah.  They  are  going  South 
for  their  health. 

A  dead  cow  on  one  of  the  thoroughfares  of  Americus 
frightened  a  horse  the  other  day,  and  the  result  was  serious 
injury  to  a  young  lady.  The  cow  had  been  lying  in  the  street 
for  two  weeks,  and  the  only  wonder  is  that  the  people  of 
Americus  didn't  become  frightened  before  the  horse  set 
them  the  example. 

Elmira,  in  the  great  State  of  New  York,  is  as  funny  about 
weather  as  an  independent  is  about  politics.  One  day  they 
clamor  for  butterflies,  and  the  next  they  send  orders  for 
snow  sledges.  There  can  never  be  any  real  honest  climate 
in  that  section  until  the  zephyrs  begin  to  produce  mosquitoes. 

The  negro  continues  to  receive  attention,  as  previously  in 

the  News: 

A  negro  baby  was  drowned  in  a  washtub  near  Reidsville 
recently. 

A  negro  woman  is  on  trial  in  Macon  for  murdering  her 
baby.  This  goes  to  show  that  the  colored  people  have  no 
rights  in  Georgia.  They  are  not  allowed  to  murder  their 
own  children.  When  will  this  oppression  cease? 

Few  men  could  have  stood,  as  did  Mr.  Harris,  the  steady 
test  of  more  than  a  decade  in  this  kind  of  work,  which  de- 


I2O  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

manded,  above  all  else,  freshness  and  spontaneity.  It  may 
well  have  been  he,  speaking  from  his  heart,  who  in  1878 
wrote  this  among  the  paragraphs :  "Bill  Arp's  letters  are 
having  a  big  run  throughout  the  country.  His  homely,  un 
pretending  humor  is  quite  refreshing  after  this  long  season 
of  nervous  newspaper  wit."1  And  Bill  Arp  added  to  his 
next  letter  the  following  pleasant  postscript : 

I  met  Harris  at  the  Kimball,  and  he  wouldn't  eat  nothin' 
but  fish.  He  said  it  was  brain  food;  and  if  he  didn't  eat 
sheepshead  twice  a  day,  he  couldn't  nigh  get  up  them  bril 
liant  paragraphs.  I  thought  I  diskivered  sheepshead  in  'em. 
Do  keep  him  in  fish !— B.  A.2 

But  Mr.  Harris  had  also  to  contribute  other  matter  to  the 
Constitution  in  response  to  various  assignments  made  by  the 
directing  editor,  and  he  often  wrote  a  special  contribution 
at  his  own  pleasure.  Sometimes  it  was  a  "heavy  political 
leader";  sometimes  it  was  a  humorous  paragraph  "filler" 
for  the  editorial  page;  again  it  was  a  prose  poem  in  the 
editorial  column  for  Sunday.  Occasionally  he  was  sent 
away  to  conduct  special  correspondence.3  The  Constitution, 
always  concerned  in  the  interests  of  literature,  significantly 
intrusted  to  him  its  reviews  of  magazines  and  new  books 
and  other  literary  discussions.4  Humor  was  a  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  practically  everything  he  wrote,  yet  an 

i  Weekly  Constitution,  June  25,  1878. 

2Weekly  Constitution,  July  2,  1878. 

3 Weekly  Constitution,  September  17,  1878,  "Political  Correspond 
ence  from  the  Barnesville  Convention,"  J.  C.  H. ;  Constitution,  Au 
gust  3,  1878,  Gainesville;  June  2off.,  1880,  Cincinnati, 

4"Mr.  Harris  can  compass  anything  in  newspaperdom  from  a 
strong  editorial  to  a  pungent  paragraph.  .  .  .  His  book  reviews 
are  scholarly  and  charming,  with  a  vein  of  delicious  humor  and 
quaint  reflection."  ("History  of  Georgia,"  I.  W.  Avery,  1881,  page 
614.)  Mr.  Avery  was  for  some  time  (up  to  1847)  editor  of  the  Con 
stitution. 


Biographical  121 

Augusta  (Georgia)  editor  who  knew  wrote:  "Who  ever  re 
called  a  spiteful  or  malicious  paragraph  from  Joe  Harris's 
pen?"  Henry  Grady  said:  "He  has  developed  a  spirit  of 
humor,  gentle,  tender,  and  sportive,  that  is  equal  to  the  best 
of  Willis's  and  recalls  Irwin  and  Lamb."1  Verses  with  his 
signature  appeared  occasionally.  During  1877  ne  wrote  sev 
eral  special  stories2  for  the  Sunday  Constitution  which  be 
tokened  his  successful  short  stones  of  later  years,  though, 
doubtless  as  a  kind  of  apology  for  these  efforts,  in  connec 
tion  with  one  he  said  : 

If  I  were  writing  you  a  story,  I  might  go  on  and  elaborate 
these  things,  as  is  the  custom  of  those  who  give  themselves 
over  to  the  fascinations  of  fiction;  but  as  I  am  writing  of 
that  which  is  known  to  hundreds  who  read  the  Constitution, 
I  prefer  to  confine  myself  to  a  prosy  narrative  of  facts,  but 
at  the  same  time  I  propose  to  narrate  these  facts  in  my  own 
way.3 

The  next  year  the  Constitution  came  out  one  day  with  the 
following  announcement : 

A  NEW  LITERARY  ATTRACTION* 

A  serial  story  to  run  several  months,  entitled  "The  Ro 
mance  of  Rockville,"  will  shortly  appear  in  the  Sunday  edi 
tion  of  the  daily  Constitution  and  the  weekly  Constitution. 
This  may  be  regarded  as  the  inauguration  of  a  new  feature 
of  the  Constitution,  for  we  propose  to  make  the  original  lit 
erary  matter  of  the  paper  as  attractive  as  its  political  and 
news  departments.  The  scene  of  "The  Romance  of  Rock- 
ville"  will  be  laid  in  Georgia,  and  it  will  embody  the  peculiar 
features  of  life  and  society  in  the  South  anterior  to  the  war. 

i  Henry  W.  Grady,  as  quoted  in  H.  Clay  Lukens's  "Don't  Give  It 
Away." 

2These  stories  are  reproduced  in  Part  II. 
3"One  Man's  History,"  June  3,  1877. 
*  Constitution,  March  7,  1878  (editorial). 


122  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

It  will,  in  short,  be  a  study  of  Southern  character.  We  cer 
tainly  need  not  say  more  to  commend  it  to  our  present  read 
ers  than  to  add  that  its  author  is  Mr.  J.  C.  Harris,  of  the 
Constitution  staff  and  the  author  of  "Uncle  Remus's  Revival 
Hymn"  and  other  literary  efforts  that  have  been  received 
with  a  remarkable  degree  of  favor  from  one  end  of  the  coun 
try  to  the  other.  We  hazard  nothing  in  asserting  that  the 
hymn  referred  to  was  more  freely  copied  in  this  country 
than  any  other  literary  effort  of  the  past  year.  So  popular 
did  it  become  that  it  was  published  in  Harper's  Monthly  as 
the  production  of  a  man  who  had  appropriated  it  for  that 
purpose.1  Mr.  Harris  will  put  into  the  new  story  his  never- 
failing  humor  and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  Southern  char 
acter.  It  will  be  perhaps  his  most  ambitious  effort,  and  all 
who  desire  to  read  it  should  without  delay  get  into  commu 
nication  with  the  business  manager  of  the  Constitution. 

This  announcement  was  greeted  far  and  wide  with  a 
hearty  welcome.  When  reference  was  again  made  to  the 
matter  in  the  Constitution,  a  solid  column  of  press  notices, 
thirty  or  more,  complimentary  to  Harris  and  anticipatory  of 
his  serial  story,  was  published.2  "The  Romance  of  Rock- 
ville,"  a  novelette  of  fifty  thousand  words,  was  published 
through  the  Weekly  Constitution  from  April  16  to  September 
10,  1878.  It  was  a  promising  piece  of  work,  indicating  the 
author's  powers  of  sustained  narrative  that  were  to  be  fur 
ther  developed  in  his  later  life.  Indeed,  "Sister  Jane"  was 
based  upon  the  central  incident  in  the  plot  of  this  story,  and 
a  parallel  study  of  the  two  is  interesting.8 
I  Mr.  Harris,  having  begun  his  career,  like  Bret  Harte, 
•Mark  Twain,  and  W.  D.  Howells,  at  the  printer's  case,  and. 
having  passed  from  apprenticeship  into  maturity  as  a  jour 
nalist,  was  now,  however  much  he  might  disclaim  the  honor, 


1See  later  reference  to  this  on  page  130. 

"Constitution,  March  31,  1878;  Weekly  Constitution,  April  2,  1878. 

8<The  Romance  of  Rockville"  is  reproduced  in  Part  II. 


Biographical  123 

advancing  some  of  his  work  in  that  capacity  to  the  threshold 
of  literature.  The  brilliant  Grady,  his  colleague,  declared: 
"Through  his  jagged  and  crude  work  of  daily  journalism 
there  shines  the  divine  light  of  genius."1  And  Colonel 
Thompson  at  the  same  time  said:  "He  is,  to  my  mind, 
one  of  our  most  promising  writers.  You  see  what  he 
has  done  and  is  doing,  but  he  is  capable  of  far  superior 
work  and  will  erelong  prove  it  to  the  world."2  Striving  to 
do  for  his  paper,  largely  along  the  line  of  his  natural  incli 
nation  from  youth,  something  more  than  the  mere  tasks  as 
signed  to  him,  he  was  astonished  one  day  to  find  that  in  so 
doing  he  had,  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  knew,  served  a 
higher  apprenticeship  and  that  the  great  publishers  of  the 
North  were  anxious  for  contributions  from  him.  However, 
it  was  not  along  the  beaten  path  of  prose  fiction  that  he  was 
to  proceed  first  into  the  higher  realm.  There  was  another 
line  of  service  to  his  paper  through  which  his  distinctive 
genius  would  lead  him,  amazed  and  embarrassed,  into  the 
company  of  those  \vriters  who  are  immortal. 

During  October,  1876,  there  were  a  number  of  changes  in 
the  Constitution.  Among  others,  there  was  one  which  re 
sulted  in  the  creation  of  "Uncle  Remus."  The  files  of  the 
paper  show  that  it  had  for  some  time  recognized  the  interest 
attaching  to  the  old-time  negro.  Space  on  the  editorial  page 
was  regularly  reserved  for  what  purported  to  be  humorous 
interviews  upon  topics  of  the  day  with  an  ante-bellum  darky 
called  "Old  Si,"  who  thus  had  become  an  established  figure 
for  the  Constitution's  readers.  "Old  Si"  was  none  other 
than  Sam  W.  Small,  a  regular  member  of  the  staff.  On 
October  14  Mr.  Small's  contract  with  the  paper  expired; 

1  Henry  W.  Grady,  as  quoted  in  H.  Clay  Lukens's  "Don't  Give  It 
Away."  1879. 

*W.  T.  Thompson,  in  Lukens's  "Don't  Give  It  Away." 


124  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

and  when  a  new  contract  could  not  be  agreed  upon,  he  went 
over  to  the  Sunday  morning  Herald,  buying  an  interest  in 
the  same.1  "Old  Si"  was  announced  to  appear  thereafter 
regularly  in  the  Herald.2  Whereupon  the  Constitution  felt 
the  need  of  its  accustomed  sketches  in  negro  dialect.  In 
this  emergency  Captain  Howell  turned  to  Mr.  Harris  and 
asked  him  if  he  could  not  continue  the  work  previously  done 
by  Mr.  Small.  Mr.  Harris  replied  that  he  would  not  under 
take  just  what  Mr.  Small  had  been  doing,  but  would  try 
something.3  The  last  "Old  Si"  sketch  had  appeared  in  the 
issue  of  September  29.  On  October  26  "Old  Si's"  space 
was  occupied  by  "Jeems  Robinson."  This  sketch  was  the 
beginning  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris's  negro  dialect  work. 
And  so,  with  slight  changes,  among  them  the  introduction 
of  "Uncle  Remus"  and  the  change  of  caption  to  "Jeems 
Rober'son's  Last  Illness,"  it  begins  the  series  of  "Sayings" 
as  collected  later  in  his  first  published  volume. 

Of  course  Mr.  Harris  had  to  go  through  a  period  of  ex 
perimentation  before  he  was  able  to  create  his  great  charac 
ter.  Following  the  sketch  referred  to  above,  appeared  on 
succeeding  days  "Cracker,"  "Dago,"  "Dutchman,"  and  nor 
mal  English  sketches,  probably  his  efforts.  The  name  "Re 
mus" — not  "Uncle  Remus" — first  appeared  incidentally  at 
the  close  of  "Politics  and  Provisions,"  October  31.  And  the 
"Uncle  Remus"  caption,  afterwards  used  regularly,  was  first 
used  in  "Uncle  Remus's  Politics"  November  28;  though 
when  Mr.  Harris  came  to  publish  his  book,  this  sketch  was 
not  taken,  doubtless  because  the  author  had  come  to  see  that 
it,  like  all  of  "Old  Si,"  was  too  patently  the  white  man  trying 
to  express  his  ideas  in  negro  language  rather  than  the  nat- 

^ee  Constitution,  October  25,  1876,  "Personal  to  the  Public." 
2 Constitution,  October  29,  1876. 

'Account  of  the  conversation  given  by  Mrs.  Harris  to  the  author. 
Mr.  Clark  Howell  thinks  that  Mr.  Harris  volunteered  this  service. 


Biographical  125 

ural  talk  of  the  negro.  This  sketch,  therefore,  is  significant 
in  the  evolution  of  "Uncle  Remus'*;  and  so  it  is  here  repro 
duced,  together  with  a  typical  "Old  Si" : 

"OLD  SI"  ON  HAYES1 

We  stopped  at  the  post  office  yesterday  to  hear  Old  Si 
expound  politics. 

"It's  de  born  truf,  sah,"  he  urged.  "De  readin'  niggers  is 
dead  sot  'ginst  'em ; !" 

"Against  whom,  Si?"  we  ventured. 

"  'Ginst  dis  hyar  'publican  party,  sah.  Dey  is,  fur  a 
fact!" 

"Why  is  that?    What's  the  trouble?" 

"Hez  you  tuck  de  time,  sah,  ter  read  dat  ar  letter  from  de 
'publican  candidate?  Mister  Hazes — I  t'ink  dat's  what 
dey's  a-callin'  ob  him." 

"Yes,  we  read  it  carefully." 

"Did  you  see  any -declamations  in  dat  letter  'bout  de  fif- 
teenf  remembyment  an'  de  Affican  citizan,  sah?" 

"We  don't  remember." 

"Dar  it  is,  sah.  De  nigger  he  watches  mighty  close  fur 
dat,  an'  lo !  an'  beholden,  sah,  an'  it  tain't  dar !  Dat's  what's 
de  matter  now,  jess  shore!" 

"Well,  what's  the  trouble  about?" 

"De  trouble  am  dat  man  don't  onderstand  de  nigger.  He 
nebber  owned  no  niggers;  what  do  he  knows  'bout  'em? 
Anybody  dat  knows  a  nigger,  knows  dat  he'd  rudder  be 
'bused  twice  dan  lef  alone  once.  Mr.  Hazes  done  lef  'em 
alone  now,  and  dey'll  lef  him  alone  when  de  'lection  comes. 
Dat's  business !" 

Two  other  negroes  nodded  to  us  approvingly,  and  we  had 
gained  a  new  campaign  idea. 

UNCLE  REMUS'S  POLITICS3 

"You  ain't  heerd  de  news,  is  you?"  asked  a  well-dressed 
darky  of  old  Uncle  Remus  yesterday. 
"W'atnewsisdat?" 


Constitution,  July  21, 1876.       2 Constitution,  November  28, 1876. 


126  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Why,  Giner'l  Grant's  gwine  ter  'naugarate  Chamberlain." 

"Gwineterdo  w'ich?" 

"Gwine  ter  'naugarate  Chamberlain/' 

"Who's  Chamberlain?" 

"Dat  Souf  Carliny  man." 

"En*  who's  gwine  ter  'naugarate  Grant?" 

"Dunno.    Hayes,  I  spec." 

"Well,  dey  ain't  no  kin  ter  me,"  said  Uncle  Remus  thought 
fully,  "an'  I  ain't  oneasy  'bout  none  uv  'em.  Gimme  a  two- 
dollar  bill,  an'  I'm  in  favor  uv  free  guv'ment  and  red  licker 
right  erlong ;  but  w'en  I'm  a-hankerin'  arter  a  dram  I  kinder 
disremember  w'ich  is  w'ich  an'  who  is  who,  an'  dat's  de 
d'sease  what  I  got  now."  And  then  Uncle  Remus  walked 
off  singing : 

"We  is  all  a-waitin'  fer  de  las'  great  day, 

Oh,  Lord!    Hallylujarum! 
But  hit  ain't  no  use  fer  de  niggers  fer  ter  stay, 

Oh,  Lord!    Hallylujarum! 
No  use  fer  ter  wait  fer  de  glory  crown 
While  Gabrile's  a-shooin'  dem  angels  all  aroun', 

Oh,  Lord !    Hallylujarum !" 

This  kind  of  character  sketch,  then,  was  the  first  thing 
that  Mr.  Harris  attempted  in  negro  dialect,  and  he  continued 
it  with  increasing  success  after  Mr.  Small,  some  months 
later,  returned  with  "Old  Si"  to  the  Constitution.''  "Uncle 
Remus  Succumbs  to  the  Epidemic,"  May  3,  1878,  followed 
the  author's  sickness  with  the  measles,  and  is  to  be  found  in 
his  book  as  "A  Case  of  Measles"  ("Sayings,"  X.).  In  the 
book  are  reproduced  twenty-one  of  these  sketches,  published 
in  the  Constitution  before  1880,  which  show  how  Mr.  Har 
ris  had  mastered  the  work.  Says  he : 

The  difference  between  the  dialect  of  the  legends  and  that 
of  the  character  sketches,  slight  as  it  is,  marks  the  modifica- 

'January  30,  1877.  See  the  Constitution  of  that  date.  "Old  Si" 
continued  for  some  years  to  appear  in  the  Constitution  irregularly. 


Biographical  127 

tions  which  the  speech  of  the  negro  has  undergone  even 
where  education  has  played  no  part  in  reforming  it.  Indeed, 
save  in  the  remote  country  districts,  the  dialect  of  the  leg 
ends  has  nearly  disappeared.  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that 
the  character  sketches  are  without  permanent  interest,  but 
they  are  embodied  here  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  a 
phase  of  negro  character  wholly  distinct  from  that  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  preserve  in  the  legends.  Only  in  this 
shape  and  with  all  the  local  allusions  would  it  be  possible  ad 
equately  to  represent  the  shrewd  observations,  the  curious 
retorts,  the  homely  thrusts,  the  quaint  comments,  and  the 
humorous  philosophy  of  the  race  of  whioh  Uncle  Remus  is 
the  type.1 

Sidney  Lanier,  who  was,  like  Mr.  Harris,  a  native  of  Mid 
dle  Georgia,  wrote : 

Uncle  Remus,  a  famous  colored  philosopher  of  Atlanta, 
...  is  a  fiction  so  founded  upon  fact  and  so  like  it  as  to 
have  passed  into  true  citizenship  and  authority  along  with 
Bottom  and  Autolycus ;  ...  it  is  real  negro  talk  and  not 
that  supposititious  negro  minstrel  talk  which  so  often  goes 
for  the  original.  It  is  as  nearly  perfect  as  any  dialect  can 
well  be.  ...  Nothing  could  be  at  once  more  fine  in  hu 
mor  and  pointed  in  philosophy.2 

Yet  Mr.  Harris  could  never  become  unconscious  of  the 
artificiality  in  these  sketches.3  There  was  before  him  the 
work  of  Irwin  Russell,  whom  he  regarded  as  the  pioneer  of 
Southern  writers  in  the  literary  representation  of  the  negro. 
And  it  was  Russell's  accurate  conception  of  character  that 
drew  forth  his  admiration.  "The  dialect  is  not  always  the 
best;  it  is  often  carelessly  written,"  writes  Mr.  Harris;  "but 
the  negro  is  there,  the  old-fashioned,  unadulterated  negro, 

1"Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings,"  Introduction,  xvi. 
*Scribner's  Monthly,  Vol.  XX.,  page  847  (October,  1880),  "The 
New  South,"  Sidney  Lanier. 

^Constitution,  September  17,  23,  1879. 


128  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

who  is  still  dear  to  the  Southern  heart."1  So  it  was  Mr. 
Harris's  great  desire  faithfully  to  present  the  negro,  and  to 
that  achievement  he  advanced  as  he  took  up  new  phases  of 
the  character. 

When  Mr.  Small  again  had  "Old  Si"  talking  through  the 
columns  of  the  Constitution  upon  contemporary  affairs,  Mr. 
Harris  began  to  draw  more  upon  his  memory  of  the  old 
plantation ;  to  reproduce  not  only  the  language,  but  also  the 
thought  of  the  old  negroes.  During  the  year  1877  he  pub 
lished  several  dialect  songs.  The  sketch  reproduced  above 
closed  with  Uncle  Remus's  singing.  That  stanza  was  Mr. 
Harris's  first  experiment.  For  some  reason  it  was  not  in 
cluded  among  those  given  in  the  book.  On  January  n, 
1877,  the  sketch  "Politics  and  Collection  Plates"  closes  with 
Uncle  Remus's  singing  a  stanza,  to  which,  on  January  18, 
were  added  three  other  stanzas,  making  up  "Uncle  Remus's 
Revival  Hymn."  Since  the  book  form  shows  interesting 
changes  that  indicate  the  keen  observation  which  made  Mr. 
Harris,  according  to  universal  verdict,  the  most  perfect  mas 
ter  of  tke  negro  dialect,  and  for  the  sake  of  preserving  the 
original,  the  Constitution  form  is  here  reproduced : 

UNCLE  REMUS'S  REVIVAL  HYMN3 

Oh,  whar  shill  we  go  w'en  de  great  day  conies, 

Wid  de  blowin'  uv  de  trumpits  an'  de  bangin'  uv  de  drums  ? 

How  menny  po'  sinners  will  be  cotched  out  late 

An'  fine  no  latch  to  de  goldin  gate  ? 

1"Poems  by  Irwin  Russell."  Harris's  introduction.  Two  selections 
from  Russell's  contemporary  work  were  published  in  the  Constitution 
about  the  time  Harris  made  his  first  efforts. 

2 'Constitution,  January  18,  1877.  Of  course  an  occasional  typo 
graphical  error  occurred.  Mr.  Harris  once  complained  (Constitution, 
"Round  about  in  Georgia,"  November  8,  1876)  :  "The  sketch  writer  of 
the  Constitution  is  ill.  He  has  endeavored  to  impress  upon  the  Intel 
ligent  Compositor  that  the  negroes  use  such  a  word  as  'mout' ;  but  the 


Biographical  129 

No  use  fer  ter  wait  'twell  to-morrer ! 
De  sun  mus'n't  set  on  yo'  sorrer ; 
Sin's  ez  sharp  ez  a  bamboo  brier — 
Oh,  Lord !  fetch  de  mo'ners  up  higher ! 

Wen  de  nashuns  uv  de  earf  is  a  stannin'  all  aroun', 
Who's  a  gwinter  be  chossen  fer  ter  war  de  glory-crown? 
Who's  a  gwine  fer  ter  stan'  stiff-kneed  an'  bol, 
An'  answer  to  dere  name  at  de  callin'  uv  de  roll  ? 

You  better  come  now  ef  you  comin' — 

Ole  Satun  is  loose  an'  a  bummin' — 

De  wheels  uv  destruction  is  a  hummin' — 

Oh,  come  along,  sinners,  ef  you  comin' ! 

De  song  uv  salvashun  is  a  mighty  sweet  song, 
An'  de  Pairidise  wins  blow  fur  an'  blow  strong, 
An'  Aberham's  buzzum  is  saf  an'  it's  wide, 
An'  dat's  de  place  whar  de  sinners  oughter  hide ! 

No  use  ter  be  stoppin'  an'  a  lookin' ; 

Ef  you  fool  wid  Satun  you'll  git  took  in ; 

You'll  hang  on  de  edge  an'  git  shook  in, 

Ef  you  keep  on  a  stoppin'  an'  a  lookin'. 

De  time  is  right  now,  an'  dis  here's  de  place — 
Let  de  salvashun  sun  shine  squar'  in  yo'  face  ; 
Fight  de  battles  uv  de  Lord,  fight  soon  an'  fight  late, 
An'  you'll  allers  fine  a  latch  to  de  goldin  gate. 

No  use  fer  ter  wait  'twell  to-morrer; 

De  sun  mus'n't  set  on  yo'  sorrer — 

Sin's  ez  sharp  ez  a  bamboo-brier  ; 

Ax  de  Lord  fer  ter  fetch  you  up  higher ! 

I.  C.  persistently  asserts,  in  the  glaring  perversity  of  his  daily  typog 
raphy,  that  the  word  is  'won't.'"  "Won't"  was  printed  instead  of 
"mout"  in  the  sketch  of  November  7  preceding.  But  this  was  at  the 
very  beginning  of  Mr.  Harris's  work.  Sam  Small  wrote  of  him :  "He 
is  laborious  and  careful  in  the  preparation  of  his  matter  and  has 
caused  less  profanity  than  almost  any  other  high  moral  editor  in  the 
United  States."  Scrupulous  effort  has  been  made  here,  as  in  every 
other  instance  in  this  book,  to  reproduce  the  original  form,  letter  for 
letter,  as  it  appeared  in  the  Constitution. 

9 


130  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

This  song  was  recognized  at  once  as  a  masterpiece.  It 
was  reprinted  in  papers  all  over  the  country.  In  the  Novem 
ber  (1877)  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine  it  was  published  in 
"The  Editor's  Drawer"  as  the  work  of  a  man  in  Ilion,  New 
York.  This  fact  was  discovered  by  the  Constitution,  whose 
editorial  column  of  November  6  dealt  briskly  with  the  matter 
under  the  heading  "A  Literary  Theft."  The  original  form 
of  the  song  was  reproduced  in  full,  and  the  first  stanza  of 
the  mangled  form  from  Ilion  was  shown.  One  paragraph  of 
the  editorial  reads : 

We  cannot  wonder  at  the  Ilion  man  wanting  the  credit  for 
producing  so  excellent  and  popular  a  piece  of  dialect  work 
as  this  "Hymn."  It  has  had  as  wide  circulation  in  the  press 
as  any  production  of  recent  years,  and  the  author  has  been 
written  to  from  long  distances  for  copies  of  it.1 

The  Chicago  Tribune  fell  under  the  illusion  that  this  was 
really  one  of  the  hymns  "sung  by  negroes  during  religious 
excitement."2  Mrs.  Charles  W.  Hubner,  of  Atlanta,  set  the 
"Hymn"  to  music  in  a  way  that  caused  Mr.  Harris  to  write 
to  her:  "It  sings  itself  to  me  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  I 
sing  it  to  my  children."  It  was  this  "Hymn"  that  first  fixed 
upon  Mr.  Harris  the  name  of  "Uncle  Remus,"  who  now  be 
came  another  of  the  Constitution's  established  characters.3 
One  month  later  came  another  song,  almost  equally  as  good 
as  the  former,  "Uncle  Remus's  Camp  Meeting  Song."4  In 
November  the  "Revival  Hymn"  was  republished,  as  stated 

aSee  also  Constitution,  March  7,  1878.  Editorial,  "A  New  Literary 
Attraction,"  reproduced  on  page  121. 

"Constitution,  December  2,  1879.  When  the  songs  are  transcrip 
tions,  Mr.  Harris  so  classifies  them  in  his  book. 

*  Constitution,  "Announcement  for  1878":  '"Old  Si'  will  continue 
to  air  his  quaint  philosophy,  .  .  .  and  'Uncle  Remus'  will  occasion 
ally  warble  one  of  his  plantation  songs." 

* 'Constitution,  February  18,  1877. 


Biographical  131 

above.  In  December  came  "Uncle  Remus's  Corn-Shucking 
Song."1  During  most  of  the  next  year  Mr.  Harris  was  en 
gaged  with  "The  Romance  of  Rockville."  But  at  the  time 
of  the  concluding  installment  of  that  story,  on  September  8, 
1878,  the  "Revival  Hymn"  was  again  republished;  and  on 
October  6  he  produced  "Uncle  Remus's  Plantation  Play 
Song,"  of  which  the  Baltimore  Gazette  said:  "Finer  than 
anything  Joaquin  Miller  ever  wrote."2  A  transcription, 
"Time  Goes  by  Turns,"  appeared  July  27,  1879,  and  on  Oc 
tober  12  the  "Christmas  Play  Song  as  Sung  by  Uncle  Re 
mus."  Then  "The  Plough-Hand's  Song"  was  published  in 
the  issue  of  October  17,  1880,  with  the  note  :  "Bartlett  Place, 
Jasper  County,  1857.  From  'Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and 
His  Sayings/  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  New  York:  D.  Ap- 
pleton  &  Co.  1880."  (The  book  had  not  then  come  from 
the  press.)3 

The  sketches  and  the  songs  presented  very  effectively  cer 
tain  phases  of  the  negro  character,  but  they  would  not  have 
preserved  the  name  of  their  author  in  literature.  It  was 
when  he  struck  the  treasure  trove  of  folklore  that  his  fame 
was  made  secure  through  all  time  to  come.  Mr.  Harris  in 
later  life  declared  that  his  authorship  was  wholly  accidental/ 
So  it  may  have  been,  but  it  was  such  an  accident  as  logically 
befell  him.  The  circumstances  were  as  follows:  It  being 
a  part  of  Mr.  Harris's  work  for  the  Constitution  to  review 


''•Constitution,  December  30,  1877.  Inquiries  about  references  in 
this  song  were  noted  and  answered  February  6,  1879.  Compare  note 
in  book. 

2 Constitution,  October  n,  1878. 

8In  discussing  Sidney  Lanier's  "Science  of  English  Verse"  Mr. 
Harris  made  applications  to  "Uncle  Remus's"  songs.  See  Constitu 
tion,  May  20,  1880,  "Notes  of  New  Books." 

'Lippincott's  Monthly  Magazine,  April,  1886,  Vol.  XXXVIL,  page 
417,  "An  Accidental  Author,"  J.  C.  Harris. 


132  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

books  and  current  magazines,  he  came  upon  the  December, 
1877,  number  of  Lippincott's  Magazine  and  found  an  article 
which  at  once  engaged  his  interest.  His  review  of  this  Mag 
azine,  published  in  the  editorial  columns  of  the  Constitution 
of  November  21,  1877,  included  the  following  paragraph: 

William  Owens  contributes  an  article  on  the  "Folklore 
of  the  Southern  Negroes,"  which  is  remarkable  for  what  it 
omits  rather  than  for  what  it  contains.  The  author  is  at  a 
loss  even  to  account  for  the  prefix  "Buh,"  as  he  puts  it, 
which  the  negroes  give  to  the  animals  who  figure  in  their 
stories,  as  "Buh  Rabbit,"  "Buh  Wolf,"  etc.  We  judge  from 
the  tone  of  Mr.  Owens's  article  that  he  is  familiar  only  with 
the  lore  of  the  nondescript  beings  who  live  on  the  coast ; 
otherwise  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  determining  the 
derivation  of  the  word  "Buh."  The  real  Southern  darky 
pronounces  the  word  as  though  it  were  written  "Brer,"  and 
he  confines  its  use  to  the  animals  themselves.  For  instance : 
"Den,  bimeby,  Mr.  Fox  he  see  Mr.  Rabbit  comin'  'long,  an' 
he  say:  'Howdy,  Brer  Rabbit — how  you  gittin*  'long  dese 
days?''  It  is  unquestionably  a  contraction  of  the  word 
"brother/'1 

Harris  could  write  with  authority,  because  he  had  become 
familiar  with  the  African  myths  and  animal  stories  during 
his  boyhood  in  old  Putnam  County.  While  in  Forsyth  the 
presence  of  eight  hundred  blacks  to  seven  hundred  whites 
gave  him  sufficient  opportunity  to  keep  his  memory  fresh. 
And  in  Savannah,  where  again  the  blacks  were  in  the  ma 
jority,  he  learned  the  coast  negro,  to  whom  Mr.  Owens's 
knowledge  seemed  limited.2  However,  despite  this  superior 

1 Constitution,  November  21,  1877.  But  an  examination  of  Mr. 
Harris's  work  shows  that  he  did  not  follow  this  rule  as  to  the  use 
of  "Brer." 

2"Uncle  Remus  and  the  Savannah  Darky"  shows  Harris's  own 
knowledge  of  the  coast  negro.  This  sketch  appeared  in  the  Consti 
tution  November  14,  1876, 


Biographical  133 

knowledge  of  his  own,  and  though  there  had  been  published 
other  discussions  of  folklore  that  came  to  his  notice  at 
least  previous  to  the  publication  of  his  book,1  he  gives  to 
Mr.  Owens  the  credit  of  arousing  in  him  a  conception  of 
the  possibility  of  turning  the  material  at  his  command  to 
literary  use.  Says  Harris : 

It  was  on  this  [Turnwold]  and  neighboring  plantations 
that  I  became  familiar  with  the  curious  myths  and  animal 
stories.  ...  I  absorbed  the  stories,  songs,  and  myths  that 
I  heard;  but  I  had  no  idea  of  their  literary  value  until, 
sometime  in  the  seventies,  Lippincott's  Magazine  printed  an 
article  on  negro  folklore  containing  rough  outlines  of  some 
of  the  stories.  This  article  gave  me  my  cue,  and  the  legends 
told  by  Uncle  Remus  are  the  result.2 

It  will  be  highly  interesting  and  worth  while  to  have  be 
fore  us  one  of  the  stories  as  written  by  Mr.  Owens,  the  sto 
ry  of  "The  Tar  Baby"  : 

Of  the  "Buh"  fables,  that  which  is  by  all  odds  the  great 
est  favorite  and  which  appears  in  the  greatest  variety  of 
forms  is  the  "Story  of  Buh  Rabbit  and  the  Tar  Baby." 
Each  variation  preserves  the  great  landmarks,  particularly 
the  closing  scene.  According  to  the  most  thoroughly  Afri 
can  version,  it  runs  thus:  Buh  Rabbit  and  Buh  Wolf  are 
neighbors.  In  a  conversation  one  day  Buh  Wolf  proposes 
that  they  two  shall  dig  a  well  for  their  joint  benefit,  instead 
of  depending  upon  chance  rainfalls  or  going  to  distant 
pools  or  branches,  as  they  often  have  to  do,  to  quench  their 
thirst.  To  this  Buh  Rabbit,  who  has  no  fondness  for  labor, 
though  willing  enough  to  enjoy  its  fruits,  offers  various 
objections  and  finally  gives  a  flat  refusal. 


1See  references  in  his  Introduction  to  "Uncle  Remus:  His  Songs 
and  His  Sayings."  See  also  Popular  Science  Monthly,  April,  1881, 
"Plantation  Folklore,"  T.  F.  Crane. 

2Lippincotfs  Monthly  Magazine,  April,  1886,  Vol.  XXXVIL,  page 
417,  "An  Accidental  Author,"  J.  C  Harris. 


134  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Well,"  says  Buh  Wolf,  who  perfectly  understands  his 
neighbor,  "if  you  no  help  to  dig  well,  you  mustn't  use  de 
water." 

"What  for  I  gwine  use  de  water?"  responds  Buh  Rabbit 
with  affected  disdain. 

"What  use  I  got  for  well  ?  In  de  mornin'  I  drink  de  dew, 
an'  in  middle  o'  day  I  drink  from  de  cow  tracks." 

The  well  is  dug  by  Buh  Wolf  alone,  who  after  a  while 
perceives  that  some  one  besides  himself  draws  from  it.  He 
watches  and  soon  identifies  the  intruder  as  Buh  Rabbit,  who 
makes  his  visits  by  night.  "Ebery  mornin'  he  see  Buh  Rab 
bit  tracks — ebery  mornin'  Buh  Rabbit  tracks/'  Indignant 
at  the  intrusion,  he  resolves  to  set  a  trap  for  his  thievish 
neighbor  and  to  put  him  to  death.  Knowing  Buh  Rabbit's 
buckish  love  for  the  ladies,  he  fits  up  a  tar  baby,  made  to 
look  like  a  beautiful  girl,  and  sets  it  near  the  well.  By 
what  magical  process  this  manufacture  of  an  attractive- 
looking  young  lady  out  of  treacherous  adhesive  tar  is  ac 
complished  we  are  not  informed.  But  listeners  to  stories 
must  not  be  inquisitive  about  the  mysterious  parts;  they 
must  be  content  to  hear. 

Buh  Rabbit,  emboldened  by  long  impunity,  goes  to  the 
well  as  usual  after  dark,  sees  this  beautiful  creature  stand 
ing  there  motionless,  peeps  at  it  time  and  again  suspiciously, 
but,  being  satisfied  that  it  is  really  a  young  lady,  he  makes 
a  polite  bow  and  addresses  her  in  gallant  language.  The 
young  lady  makes  no  reply.  This  encourages  him  to  ask  if 
he  may  not  come  to  take  a  kiss.  Still  no  reply.  He  sets 
his  water  bucket  on  the  ground,  marches  up  boldly  and  ob 
tains  a  kiss,  but  finds  to  his  surprise  that  he  cannot  get 
away.  His  lips  are  held  fast  by  the  tar.  He  struggles  and 
tries  to  persuade  her  to  let  him  go.  How  he  is  able  to  speak 
with  his  lips  sticking  fast  is  another  unexplained  mystery; 
but  no  matter,  he  does  speak,  and  most  eloquently,  yet  in 
vain.  He  now  changes  his  tone  and  threatens  her  with  a 
slap.  Still  no  answer.  He  administers  the  slap,  and  his 
hand  sticks  fast.  One  after  the  other,  both  hands  and  both 
feet,  as  well  as  his  mouth,  are  thus  caught,  and  poor  Buh 
Rabbit  remains  a  prisoner  until  Buh  Wolf  comes  the  next 
morning  to  draw  water. 


Biographical.  135 

"Eh!  eh!  Buh  Rabbit,  wah  de  matter?"  exclaims  Buh 
Wolf,  affecting  the  greatest  surprise  at  his  neighbor's  woe 
ful  plight. 

Buh  Rabbit,  who  has  as  little  regard  for  truth  as  for  hon 
esty,  replies,  attempting  to  throw  all  the  blame  upon  the  de 
ceitful  maiden  by  whom  he  has  been  entrapped,  not  even 
suspecting  yet — so  we  are  to  infer — that  she  is  made  of  tar 
instead  of  living  flesh.  He  declares  with  all  the  earnestness 
of  injured  innocence  that  he  was  passing  by  in  the  sweet, 
honest  moonlight  in  pursuit  of  his  lawful  business  when 
this  girl  hailed  him  and  decoyed  him  into  giving  her  a  kiss 
and  was  now  holding  him  in  unlawful  durance. 

The  listener  ironically  commiserates  his  captive  neighbor 
and  proposes  to  set  him  free,  when,  suddenly  noticing  the 
water  bucket  and  the  tracks  by  the  well,  he  charges  Buh 
Rabbit  with  his  repeated  robberies  by  night  and  concludes 
by  declaring  his  intention  to  put  him  to  immediate  death. 

The  case  has  now  become  pretty  serious ;  and  Buh  Rabbit 
is,  of  course,  woefully  troubled  at  the  near  approach  of  the 
great  catastrophe.  Still,  even  in  this  dire  extremity,  his 
wits  do  not  cease  to  cheer  him  with  some  hope  of  escape. 
Seeing  that  his  captor  is  preparing  to  hang  him — for  the 
cord  is  already  around  his  neck,  and  he  is  being  dragged 
toward  an  overhanging  limb — he  expresses  the  greatest  joy 
by  capering,  dancing,  and  clapping  his  hands,  so  much  so 
that  the  other  curiously  inquires :  "What  for  you  so  glad, 
Buh  Rabbit?" 

"Oh,"  replies  the  sly  hypocrite,  "because  you  gwine  hang 
me  and  not  trow  me  in  de  brier-bush." 

"What  for  I  mustn't  trow  you  in  de  brier-bush?"  in 
quires  Mr.  Simpleton  Wolf. 

"Oh,"  prays  Buh  Rabbit  with  a  doleful  whimper,  "please 
hang  me.  Please  trow  me  in  de  water  or  trow  me  in  de  fire, 
where  I  die  at  once.  But  don't — oh  don't — trow  me  in  de 
brier-bush  to  tear  my  poor  flesh  from  off  my  bones !" 

"I  gwine  to  do  'zactly  wat  you  ax  me  not  to  do,"  re 
turns  Buh  Wolf  in  savage  tone.  Then,  going  to  a  neighbor 
ing  patch  of  thick,  strong  briers,  he  pitches  Buh  Rabbit  head 
long  in  the  midst  and  says :  "Now  let's  see  de  flesh  come  off 
de  bones." 


136  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

No  sooner,  however,  does  the  struggling  and  protesting 
Buh  Rabbit  find  himself  among  the  briers  than  he  slides 
gently  to  the  ground ;  and,  peeping  at  his  would-be  torturer 
from  a  safe  place  behind  the  stems,  he  says:  "Tankee,  Buh 
Wolf — a  tousand  tankee — for  bring  me  home.  De  brier- 
bush  de  berry  place  where  I  been  born."1 

Mr.  Harris  did  not  begin  immediately  and  without  delib 
eration  to  publish  folklore.  For  more  than  a  year  he  was 
recalling  the  old  tales,  writing  them  out  in  practice,  and 
providing  for  them  a  desirable  setting.  We  remember  how 
peculiarly  intimate  and  affectionate  had  been  the  relation 
ship  of  this  "morbidly  sensitive"  boy — who  had  also  a 
"strange  sympathy  with  animals  of  all  kinds" — with  the 
simple-minded,  warm-hearted  old  slaves  who  "used  to  sit 
at  night  and  amuse  the  children  with  .  .  .  reminiscences 
and  .  .  .  stories."  Instinctively,  then,  and  with  the  wis 
dom  of  genius  he  committed  the  narration  of  the  legends  to 
a  venerable  ex-slave  who  had  only  fond  memories  of  the 
former  period.  This  genuine  old  negro,  with  his  general 
proprietary  attitude  toward  whatever  was  his  beloved  former 
master's  and  with  his  unoffensive  air  of  superiority  natural 
and  becoming  to  such  a  character,  charms  the  little  boy  of 
the  new  generation  by  unfolding  to  him  the  mysteries  of 
plantation  lore.  And  thus  the  erstwhile  printer  and  tempora 
ry  journalist  was  now  about  to  perpetuate  in  abiding  litera 
ture,  for  the  happiness  of  succeeding  generations,  the  old- 
time  association  of  the  negroes,  the  children,  and  the  animals. 
The  negro  dialect  was  to  be  used  because,  said  he,  "the  dia 
lect  is  a  part  of  the  legends  themselves,  and  to  present  them 
in  any  other  way  would  be  to  rob  them  of  everything  that 

Reproduced  from  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  by  permission  from 
the  publishers. 


Biographical.  137 

gives  them  vitality."1  And,  of  course,  it  was  "Uncle  Remus," 
already  known  and  loved  both  South  and  North  for  his 
"Sayings"  and  "Songs,"  whom  Mr.  Harris  now  introduced 
with  his  "Negro  Folklore,"  publishing  in  the  Constitution 
of  July  20,  1879,  "The  Story  of  Mr.  Rabbit  and  Mr.  Fox 
as  Told  by  Uncle  Remus."2  Of  "Uncle  Remus"  Mr.  Har 
ris  once  said  he  was  "a  human  syndicate  ...  of  three  or 
four  old  darkies  whom  I  had  known.  I  just  walloped  them 
together  into  one  person  and  called  him  Uncle  Remus."8 

Of  the  ideal  portrait  of  the  character  painted  by  Mr. 
James  Henry  Moser  he  said : 

It  is  really  a  notable  piece  of  work.  Its  characteristics  are 
typical,  so  much  so  that  the  first  impression  of  those  who 
are  familiar  with  the  peculiarities  of  the  negro  is  that  it  is 
painted  from  life  and  that  they  have  seen  the  original.  .  .  . 
Although  the  negro  features  are  broadly  emphasized,  the 
face  is  not  without  a  certain  suggestion  of  intellectual  possi 
bilities  ;  and  while  it  is  full  of  humor — not  the  humor  of  the 
artist,  but  the  humor  of  the  type — a  certain  shrewd  reserve 
makes  itself  apparent.  The  portrait,  in  short,  is  a  serious 
attempt  to  reproduce  the  characteristics  of  the  old  planta 
tion  negro,  so  dear  to  the  memory  of  the  Southern  people, 
and  the  result  is  the  only  genuine  reproduction  of  the  typical 
negro  we  have  ever  seen  upon  canvas.  The  painting  is  full 
of  that  quaintly  pathetic  dignity  that  cannot  be  described  in 
words.  Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  face  is  almost  identical 
with  that  which  had  identified  itself  with  Uncle  Remus  in 
the  mind  of  the  author  of  the  sketches,  and  an  engraving  of 
the  portrait  will  appear  in  the  forthcoming  volume,  to  be 
issued  by  the  Appletons.* 


1"Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,"  Introduction,  page  xxxii. 
"Constitution,  July  20,  1879,  and  "Uncle  Remus:  His  Songs  and 
His  Sayings,"  first  legend. 

'Boston  Globe,  November  3,  1907. 
'Constitution,  May  9,  1880  (editorial  column). 


138  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

The  first  story  was  thrown  out,  as  it  were,  to  test  the 
popular  fancy.  Nor  did  Mr.  Harris  offer  another  until  he 
had  read  the  exchanges  and  awaited  for  four  months  the 
expressive  response  from  readers.  In  his  self-criticism  he 
was  severe;1  but  he  must  have  felt  very  much  encouraged 
when,  along  with  words  of  praise  from  all  sides,  he  read  in 
the  Cartersville  (Georgia)  Free  Press  the  following: 

We  heard  a  most  distinguished  gentleman  (it  was  the 
Hon.  A.  H.  Stephens)  remark  last  Friday  that  "Uncle  Re 
mus"  (who  is  Mr.  J.  C.  Harris,  of  the  Atlanta  Constitution) 
was  one  of  the  most  original  and  natural  characters  now 
before  the  public.  Furthermore,  Mr.  Stephens  said  he 
wanted  all  of  Uncle  Remus's  articles  to  put  in  his  scrap- 
book  for  preservation,  and  Joe  Harris  ought  to  feel  proud 
of  the  compliment.2 

Soon  afterwards  Mr.  Harris  gave  the  second  story  under 
"Uncle  Remus's  Folklore :  Brer  Rabbit,  Brer  Fox,  and  the 
Tar  Baby/'3  Students  of  folklore  claim  to  have  traced  this 
legend  back  to  the  Sanskrit  and  to  Buddha,  four  hundred 
and  seventy  years  before  Christ,  but  never  had  there  been 
imparted  to  it  such  picturesque  beauty  and  charm  as  now. 
Henceforth  an  Uncle  Remus  tale  was  a  regular  feature  of 
the  Sunday  and  Weekly  Constitution,  being  devoured  by 
old  and  young  in  thousands  of  homes.  There  are  to-day  few 
men  or  women  in  the  South  of  the  mature  generation  who 
cannot  recall  the  joy  that  the  Atlanta  paper  with  these  ani 
mal  stories  brought  every  week  into  their  hearts,  and  it  has 
been  pointed  out  elsewhere  how  they  have  carried  delight 

1 Constitution,  September  17,  23,  1879;  January  20,  1880.    See  page 

145- 

2Cartersville  Free  Press,  as  quoted  in  the  Constitution  September 
26,  1879. 

9 Constitution,  November  16,  1879,  and  "Uncle  Remus:  His  Songs 
and  His  Sayings,"  second  legend. 


Biographical  139 

around  the  world.1    The  original  Constitution  form  of  Leg 
ends  I.,  II.,  and  IV.  are  here  reproduced : 

NEGRO  FOLKLORE2 
THE  STORY  OF  MR.  RABBIT  AND  MR.  Fox,  AS  TOLD  BY  UNCLE  REMUS 


Yesterday  the  lady  whom  Uncle  Remus  calls  "Miss  Sal 
ly"  missed  her  little  six-year-old.  Making  search  for  him 
through  the  house,  she  heard  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  back 
piazza  and,  looking  through  the  window,  saw  the  child  sit 
ting  by  Uncle  Remus.  His  head  rested  against  the  old  man's 
arm,  and  he  was  gazing  with  an  expression  of  the  most  in 
tense  interest  into  the  rough,  weather-beaten  face  that 
beamed  so  kindly  upon  him.  This  is  what  "Miss  Sally" 
heard : 

"Bimeby,  one  day,  arter  Mr.  Fox  bin  doin'  all  dat  he  could 
fer  ter  ketch  Mr.  Rabbit,  an'  Mr.  Rabbit  bin  doin'  all  he 
could  to  keep  'im  fum  it,  Mr.  Fox  say  to  hisse'f  dat  he'd 
put  up  a  game  on  Mr.  Rabbit;  an'  he  hadn't  mo'n  got  de 
wuds  out'n  his  mouf  twell  Mr.  Rabbit  come  a-lopin'  up  de 
big  road  lookin'  [des]  ez  plump  an'  ez  fat  an'  ez  sassy  ez  a 
Morgan  hoss  in  a  barley  patch. 

'  'Hoi'  on  dar,  Brer  Rabbit/  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee. 

"  'I  ain't  got  time,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Mr.  Rabbit,  sezee,  sor 
ter  mendin'  his  licks. 

"  'But  I  wanter  have  some  confab  wid  you,  Brer  Rabbit/ 
[sez  Brer  Fox,]  sezee. 

"  'All  right,  Brer  Fox ;  but  you  better  holler  fum  whar 
you  stan'.  I'm  monst'us  full  uv  fleas  dis  mawnin/  [sez 
Brer  Rabbit,]  sezee. 

"  T  seed  Brer  B'ar  yistiddy/  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee,  'an'  he 
sorter  raked  me  over  de  coals  kase  you  an'  me  didn't  make 
frens  an'  live  naberly,  an'  I  tole  'im  dat  I'd  see  you/ 

Introduction  to  the  present  volume. 

2Scrupulous  effort  has  been  made  to  reproduce,  letter  for  letter, 
the  original  Constitution  form.  See  footnote  on  page  129.  Italics 
have  been  used  in  this  first  legend  to  indicate  forms  that  are  changed 
in  the  book;  brackets  indicate  insertions  made  in  the  book. 


140  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Den  Mr.  Rabbit  scratch  one  year  wid  his  off  hine  foot 
sorter  jub'usly,  an'  den  he  ups  an'  sez,  sezee : 

"  'All  a-settin',  Brer  Fox.  Spose'n  you  drap  roun'  ter- 
morrer  an'  take  dinner  wid  me.  We  ain't  got  no  great  doin's 
at  our  house,  but  I  speck  de  ole  'oman  an'  de  chilluns  kin 
sorter  scramble  roun'  an'  git  up  sump'n  fer  ter  stay  yo' 
stummuck/ 

"  'I'm  'gree'ble,  Brer  Rabbit/  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee. 

"  'Den  I'll  'pen'  on  you/  sez  Mr.  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"Nex'  day  Mr.  Rabbit  an'  Miss  Rabbit  got  up  soon,  'fo' 
day,  an'  raided  on  a  gyarden,  like  Miss  Sally's  out  dar,  an' 
got  some  cabbage,  an'  some  roas'n  years,  an'  some  sparrer- 
grass,  an'  dey  fixed  up  a  smashin'  dinner.  Bimeby  one  er 
de  little  Rabbits,  playin'  out  in  de  back  yard,  come  runnin' 
in  hollerin' :  'Oh  ma  !  Oh  ma !  I  seed  Mr.  Fox  a-comin' !' 
An'  den  Mr.  Rabbit  he  tuck  de  chilluns  by  dere  years  an' 
made  um  set  down,  an'  den  him  an'  Miss  Rabbit  sorter  dal 
lied  roun'  waitin'  for  Mr.  Fox.  An'  dey  kep'  on  waitin/ 
but  no  Mr.  Fox  [ain't  come].  Arter  'while  Mr.  Rabbit  goes 
to  de  do',  easylike,  an'  peep  out;  an'  dar,  stickin'  out  fum 
behine  de  cornder,  wuz  de  tip  eend  uv  Brer  Fox's  tail.  Den 
Mr.  Rabbit  shot  de  do'  an'  sot  down  an'  put  his  paws  behine 
his  years  an'  begin  fer  ter  sing : 

"  'De  place  wharbouts  you  spill  de  grease, 

Right  dar  youer  boun'  ter  slide ; 
An'  whar  you  fine  a  bunch  uv  ha'r, 
You'll  sholy  fine  de  hide/ 

"Nex'  day  Mr.  Fox  sont  word  by  Mr.  Mink  an'  skuse 
hisse'f  kase  he  wuz  too  sick  fer  ter  come,  an'  he  ax  Mr. 
Rabbit  fer  to  come  an'  eat  dinner  wid  him,  an'  Mr.  Rabbit 
say  he  wuz  'gree'ble. 

"Bimeby,  when  de  shadders  wuz  at  dere  shortes',  Mr. 
Rabbit  he  sorter  bresh  up  an'  santer  down  unto  Mr.  Fox's 
house ;  an'  when  he  got  dar,  he  hear  somebody  groanin',  an' 
he  look  in  de  door,  an'  dar  he  see  Mr.  Fox  settin'  up  in  a 
rockin'  cheer  all  wrapped  up  wid  flannels,  an'  he  look 
mighty  weak.  Mr.  Rabbit  look  all  'roun',  [he  did,]  but  he 
don't  see  no  dinner.  De  dish  pan  was  settin'  on  de  table, 
an'  close  by  was  a  kyarvin*  knife. 


Biographical  141 

"  'Look  like  you  gwinter  have  chicken  fer  dinner,  Brer 
Fox/  sez  Mr,  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"  'Yes,  Brer  Rabbit.  Deyer  nice,  an'  fresh,  an'  tender/ 
sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 

"Den  Mr.  Rabbit  sorter  pull  his  must  ash,  anf  sez:  'You 
ain't  got  no  calamus  root,  is  you,  Brer  Fox?  I  [done]  got 
so  now  that  I  can't  eat  no  chicken  'cept  she's  seasoned  up 
wid  calamus  root/  An'  wid  dat  Mr.  Rabbit  lipt  out  er  de 
do*  and  dodged  'mong  de  bushes  an'  sot  dar  watchin'  fer  Mr. 
Fox;  an'  he  didn't  watch  long  nudder,  kase  Mr.  Fox  flung 
off  de  flannels  an'  crope  out  er  de  house  an'  got  whar  he 
could  cloze  in  on  Mr.  Rabbit,  an'  bimeby  Mr.  Rabbit  hol 
lered  out :  'O  Brer  Fox !  I'll  [des]  put  yo'  calamus  root  out 
here  on  dis  [yer]  stump.  Better  come  git  it  while  hit's 
fresh/  and  wid  dat  Mr.  Rabbit  galloped  off  home.  An'  Mr. 
Fox  ain't  never  cotch  'im  yit;  an',  w'at's  more,  honey,  he 
ain't  gwinter." 

UNCLE  REMUS  FOLKLORE 

BRER  RABBIT,  BRER  Fox,  AND  THE  TAR  BABY 

II 

"Didn't  the  fox  never  catch  the  rabbit,  Uncle  Remus?" 
asked  the  little  boy  to  whom  the  old  man  delights  to  relate 
his  stories. 

"He  come  mighty  nigh  it,  honey,  sho's  you  bawn — Brer 
Fox  did.  On.e  day  atter  Brer  Rabbit  fooled  'im  wid  dat 
calamus  root  Brer  Fox  went  ter  wuk  en  got  'im  some  tar, 
en  mixt  it  wid  some  turkentime,  en  fixt  up  a  contrapshun 
dat  he  call  a  Tar  Baby ;  en  he  tuck  dis  yer  Tar  Baby  en  sot 
'er  in  de  big  road,  den  he  laid  off  in  de  bushes  fer  to  see  wat 
de  news  wuz  gwine  to  be.  En  he  didn't  hatter  wait  long, 
nudder,  caze  bimeby  here  come  Brer  Rabbit  pacin'  down  de 
road  lippity-clippity,  clippity-lippity,  des  ez  sassy  ez  a  hotel 
nigger.  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low.  Brer  Rabbit  come  prancin' 
'long  twell  he  spied  de  Tar  Baby,  en  den  he  fotch  up  on  his 
behime  legs  like  he  wuz  'stonished.  De  Tar  Baby  he  sot  dar, 
en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"  'Mawnin'/  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  'Nice  wedder  dis 
mawnin'/  sezee. 


142  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Tar  Baby  ain't  sayin'  nothing  en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"  'How  duz  yo'  sym'tums  seem  ter  segashuate?'  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  sezee. 

"Brer  Fox  he  wink  his  eye  slow  en  lay  low,  en  de  Tar 
Baby  he  ain't  sayin'  nuthin'. 

"  'How  you  come  on,  den?  Is  you  deaf?'  sez  Brer  Rab 
bit,  sezee.  'Caze  ef  you  is,  I  kin  holler  louder,'  sezee. 

"Tar  Baby  keep  quiet,  en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"Youer  stuck  up,  dat's  w'at  you  is,'  says  Brer  Rabbit, 
sezee,  'en  I'm  gwine  to  kyore  you,  dat's  w'at  I'm  a  gwineter 
do,'  sezee. 

"Brer  Fox  he  sorter  chuckle  in  his  stummuck,  but  Tar 
Baby  ain't  sayin*  nuthin'. 

"  'I'm  gwineter  larn  you  howter  talk  ter  'spectoble  peo 
ple  ef  hit's  de  las'  ack,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  'Ef  you 
don't  take  off  dat  hat  en  tell  me  howdy,  I'm  gwineter  bus' 
you  wide  open,'  sezee. 

"Tar  Baby  set  still,  en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"Brer  Rabbit  keep  on  axin'  'im,  en  de  Tar  Baby  keep  on 
sayin'  nuthin',  twell  presently  Brer  Rabbit  draw  back  wid 
his  fis',  en  blip !  he  tuck  him  side  er  de  head.  Right  dar's 
whar  he  broke  his  molassas  jug.  His  fis'  stuck,  en  he 
couldn't  pull  loose.  De  tar  hilt  'im. 

"  'If  you  don't  lemme  loose,  I'll  hit  you  agin,'  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  sezee,  en  wid  dat  he  fotch  him  a  wipe  wid  de  udder 
han',  en  dat  stuck.  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"  'Turn  me  loose  fo'  I  kick  de  natal  stuffin'  outen  you,' 
sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee;  but  de  Tar  Baby  hilt  on,  en  den 
Brer  Rabbit  los'  de  use  un  his  feet  in  de  same  way.  Brer 
Fox  he  lay  low.  Den  Brer  Rabbit  squalled  out  dat  ef  de 
Tar  Baby  didn't  turn  'im  loose  he'd  butt  him  crank-sided. 
En  he  butted,  en  his  head  got  fastened.  Den  Brer  Fox  he 
sa'ntered  fort'  lookin'  des  ez  innercent  ez  wunner  yo'  mam 
my's  mockin'  birds. 

"  'Howdy,  Brer  Rabbit/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee.  'You  look 
sorter  stuck  up  dis  mawnin','  sezee ;  en  den  he  rolled  on  de 
groun'  en  laft  en  laft  twell  he  couldn't  laff  no  mo', 
speck  you'll  take  dinner  wid  me  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit.  I 
done  laid  in  some  calamus  root,  en  I  ain't  gwineter  take  no 
skuse,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 


Biographical  143 

Here  Uncle  Remus  paused  and  drew  a  two-pound  yam 
out  of  the  ashes. 

"Did  the  fox  eat  the  rabbit?"  asked  the  little  boy  to  whom 
the  story  had  been  told. 

"Dat's  all  de  fur  de  tale  goes/'  replied  the  old  man.  "He 
mout,  en  den  agin  he  moutent.  Some  say  Jedge  B'ar  come 
'long  en  loosed  'im ;  some  say  he  didn't.  I  hear  Miss  Sally 
callin'.  You  better  run  long." 

UNCLE  REMUS  FOLKLORE 

SHOWING  How  BRER  RABBIT  WAS  Too  SHARP  FOR  BRER  Fox 

IV 

"Uncle  Remus,"  said  the  little  boy  who  plays  the  part  of 
an  appreciative  audience  to  the  old  man,  "did  the  fox  kill 
and  eat  the  rabbit  when  he  caught  him  with  the  Tar  Baby  ?" 

"Law,  honey,  didn't  I  tell  you  'bout  dat?"  replied  the  old 
darky,  chuckling  slyly.  "I  'clar'  ter  grashus,  I  ought  er  tole 
you  dat ;  but  old  man  Nod  wuz  ridin*  on  my  eyelids  twell  a 
little  moen  I'd  a  dis'member'd  my  own  name,  en  den  on  to 
dat  here  come  yo'  mammy  hollerin'  atter  you. 

"Wat  I  tell  you  w'en  I  fus'  begin?  I  tole  you  Brer  Rab 
bit  wuz  a  monstus  soon  beas' — leas'ways  dat's  w'at  I  laid 
out  fer  ter  tell  you.  Well,  den,  honey,  don't  you  go  en 
make  no  udder  calkalashuns,  kaze  in  dem  days  Mr.  Rabbit 
en  his  fambly  wuz  at  de  head  er  de  gang  w'en  enny  racket 
wuz  on  han,'  en  dar  dey  stayed.  'Fo'  you  begins  fer  ter 
wipe  yo'  eyes  'bout  Mr.  Rabbit,  you  wait  en  see  whar'bouts 
Mr.  Rabbit  gwine  ter  fetch  up  at.  But  dat's  needer  here 
ner  dar. 

"W'en  Brer  Fox  fine  Brer  Rabbit  mixt  up  wid  de  Tar 
Baby,  he  feel  mighty  good,  en  he  roll  on  de  groun'  en  laff. 
Bimeby  he  up'n  say,  sezee  : 

"  'Well,  I  speck  I  got  you  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit/  sezee. 
'Maybe  I  ain't,  but  I  speck  I  is.  You  been  runnin'  roun' 
here  sassin'  atter  me  a  mighty  long  time,  but  I  speck  you 
done  come  ter  de  end  er  de  row.  You  bin  cuttin*  up  yo' 
capers  en  bouncin'  roun'  in  dis  naberhood  ontwell  you  come 
ter  b'leeve  yo'sef  de  boss  er  de  whole  gang.  En  den  youer 
allers  some'rs  whar  you  got  no  bizness/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 


144  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

'Who  axed  you  fer  ter  come  en  strike  up  a  'quaintance  wid 
dis  yer  Tar  Baby?  En  who  stuck  you  up  dar  whar  you  iz? 
Nobody  in  de  roun'  worril.  You  des  tuck  en  jamed  yo'se'f 
on  dat  Tar  Baby  widout  waitin'  fer  enny  invite/  sez  Brer 
Fox,  sezee,  'en  dar  you  is;  en  dar  you'll  stay  twell  I  fixes 
up  a  bresh  pile  and  fires  her  up,  fer  I'm  gwineter  barbecue 
you  dis  day,  sho'/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 

"Den  Brer  Rabbit  talk  mighty  'umble. 

"  'I  don't  keer  w'at  you  do  wid  me,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee,  'so 
you  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier  patch.  Roas'  me,  Brer  Fox,' 
sezee,  'but  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier  patch/  sezee. 

"  'Hit's  so  much  trouble  fer  ter  kindle  a  fire/  sez  Brer 
Fox,  sezee,  'dat  I  speck  I'll  hatter  hang  you/  sezee. 

"  'Hang  me  des  ez  high  as  you  please,  Brer  Fox/  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  sezee,  'but  do,  fer  de  Lord's  sake,  don't  fling  me  in 
dat  brier  patch/  sezee. 

"  'I  ain't  got  no  string/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  'en  now  I 
speck  I'll  hatter  drown  you/  sezee. 

"  'Drown  me  des  ez  deep  ez  you  please,  Brer  Fox/  sez 
Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  'but  do  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier  patch/ 
sezee. 

"  'Dey  ain't  no  water  nigh/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  'en  now 
I  speck  I'll  hatter  skin  you/  sezee. 

"  'Skin  me,  Brer  Fox/  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee;  'snatch  out 
my  eyeballs,  t'ar  out  my  years  by  de  roots,  an'  cut  off  my 
legs/  sezee,  'but  do  please,  Brer  Fox,  don't  fling  me  in  dat 
brier  patch/  sezee. 

"Co'se  Brer  Fox  wanter  hurt  Brer  Rabbit  bad  ez  he  kin, 
so  he  cotch  'im  by  de  behime  legs  en  slung  'im  right  in  de 
middle  er  de  brier  patch.  Dar  wuz  a  considerbul  flutter 
whar  Brer  Rabbit  struck  de  bushes,  en  Brer  Fox  sorter 
hang  'roun'  fer  ter  see  w'at  wuz  gwineter  happen.  Bimeby 
he  hear  somebody  call  'im,  en  'way  up  de  hill  he  see  Brer 
Rabbit  settin'  cross-legged  on  a  chinkapin  log  koamin'  de 
pitch  outen  his  har  wid  a  chip.  Den  Brer  Fox  know  dat 
he'd  ben  swopt  off  mighty  bad.  Brer  Rabbit  wuz  bleedzed 
fer  ter  fling  back  some  er  his  sass,  en  he  holler  out : 

"  'I  gotter  go  home  en  bresh  up  fer  Sunday,  Brer  Fox/ 
sezee,  'but  I'll  see  you  later.  So  long!  Be  sho'  en  save  me 
some  er  dat  calamus  root !'  sezee,  en  ^wid  dat  he  skipt  out 
des  ez  lively  ez  a  cricket  in  de  embers." 


Biographical  145 

The  creation  of  "Uncle  Remus"  was  now  perfected.  But 
Mr.  Harris  had  never  conceived  of  the  magnitude  of  this 
achievement,  nor  had  he  the  faintest  fancy  of  the  fame  that 
it  would  immediately  bring  to  him.  So  late  as  two  months 
after  he  had  published  the  first  folklore  tales,  though  doubt 
less  thinking  rather  of  the  sketches,  he  depreciated  his 
work  thus : 

A  correspondent  of  the  Milledgeville  Union  and  Recorder 
has  some  remarks  on  the  negro  dialect  as  it  appears  in  the 
newspapers,  which,  so  far  as  they  apply  to  "Uncle  Remus," 
are  eminently  just  and  proper.  It  will  not  be  considered 
invidious  for  the  writer  hereof  to  say  that,  so  far  as  the 
efforts  of  "Uncle  Remus"  to  reproduce  the  dialect  of  the 
old  plantation  negro — the  flavor  and  essence  of  his  thought 
and  style — are  concerned,  they  are  flat  and  dismal  failures 
from  beginning  to  end — no  more  representative  in  an  ar 
tistic  sense  than  the  stale  jokes  of  the  end  man  of  a  negro 
minstrel  show.1 

Several  months  later  he  referred  to  the  legends  as  "tri 
fles."2  But  trifles  never  took  hold  upon  men  and  women 
and  children  as  did  these  tales,  and  in  the  face  of  a  universal 
popular  verdict  no  dictum  from  the  critics  was  needed  to 
bring  men  to  a  recognition  of  the  value  of  this  contribution 
to  American  literature. 

The  creation  of  this  character  was  a  logical  sequence  in\ 
the  progress  of  Mr.  Harris's  writings.    Much  of  his  writing ; 
for  the  Constitution  had  been  in  kind  anticipated  by  what  he 
had  done  first  for  the  little  old  Countryman,  for  the  Adver-  • 
tiser,  and  for  the  News.     In  Forsyth,  before  he  committed 

1 Constitution,  September  17,  1879,  "Round  about  in  Georgia"  col 
umn.  See  a  repetition  of  this  self-criticism  in  the  issue  of  Septem 
ber  23. 

9 Constitution,  January  20,  1880. 
IO 


146  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

himself  to  journalism,  he  had  dreamed  of  a  literary  career 
in  which  he  would  "cultivate  the  tale,  the  essay,  the  review, 
and  the  novel."  That  dream  had  faded  during  the  succeed 
ing  years  of  intense  newspaper  work,  and  to  have  reminded 
him  of  it  now  would  have  been  to  overwhelm  him  in  con 
fusion  and  shame ;  but  through  his  daily  work  for  the  Con 
stitution  it  was,  in  fact,  approaching  realization.  In  For- 
syth  he  wrote  his  first  tale,  writing  of  the  fox  hunts  from 
the  joy  and  excitement  of  which  he  had  freshly  come.1  Tn 
Atlanta  he  was  entertaining  his  Sunday  readers  with  fox 
hunt2  and  other  stories  based  mostly  upon  his  own  expe 
rience  and  observation.8  In  addition  to  his  humor  (re 
calling  his  very  first  prose  contribution  to  The  Country 
man,  "Grumblers"),*  it  was  his  "thorough  knowledge  oi 
Southern  character,"  agreed  the  readers,  that  made  his 
work  so  popular.  Awaiting  "The  Romance  of  Rockville," 
Colonel  Thompson  wrote  from  Savannah :  "We  have  a 
right  to  expect  in  a  story  from  his  pen,  laid  amid  scenes 
with  which  he  is  familiar,  and  illustrative  of  Georgia  life 
and  character,  a  rare  literary  treat."5  Through  his  ''review" 
column  Mr.  Harris  was  proclaiming  that  great  fundamental 
principle  of  literary  work  which  he  had  been  taught  during 
the  first  year  of  his  quasi-college  course  under  Mr.  Turner,6 
On  two  successive  Sundays  during  the  fall  of  1879  he  had 
written  of  "Major  Jones,"  associating  him  with  "Hosea 
Bigelow,"  and  declaring  these  to  be  "characters  that  will 


1See  page  270. 

2Stmday  Constitution,  December  16,  1877,  "A  Georgia  Fox  Hunt." 
This  story,  with  some  changes,  was  republished  in  "On  the  Planta 
tion." 

8See  reproductions  in  Part  II. 

'Reproduced  on  page  38. 

5W.  T.  Thompson,  Savannah  Morning  News,  March,  1878. 

*See  page  147. 


Biographical  147 

live  because  they  are  locally  perfect  and  typically  nation 
al."1  He  had  thus  caught  a  wider  vision  than  his  war- 
embittered  teacher  of  '62;  and  just  as  he  began  the  folklore 
series,  like  another  Emerson,  he  wrote  for  literary  workers 
of  the  South  and  of  the  nation  the  following  splendid  and 
irreproachable  declarations  of  independence : 

LITERATURE  IN  THE  SOUTH2 

The  very  spice  and  flavor  of  all  literature,  the  very  mar 
row  and  essence  of  all  literary  art  is  its  localism.  No  lit 
erary  artist  can  lack  for  materials  in  this  section.  They  are 
here  all  around  him,  untouched,  undeveloped,  undisturbed, 
unique  and  original,  as  new  as  the  world,  as  old  as  life,  as 
fair  as  flowers,  as  beautiful  as  the  dreams  of  genius.  But 
they  must  be  mined.  They  must  be  run  through  the  stamp 
mill.  Where  is  the  magician  who  will  catch  them  and  store 
them  up?  You  may  be  sure  that  the  man  who  does  it  will 
not  care  one  copper  whether  he  is  developing  and  building 
up  Southern  or  Northern  literature,  and  he  will  feel  that  his 
work  is  considerably  belittled  if  it  be  claimed  by  either  on 
the  score  of  sectionalism.  In  literature,  art,  and  society, 
whatever  is  truly  Southern  is  likewise  truly  American ;  and 
the  same  may  be  said  of  what  is  Northern.  Literature  that 
is  Georgian  or  Southern  is  necessarily  American,  and  in  the 
broadest  sense.  The  sectionalism  that  is  the  most  marked 
feature  of  our  modern  politics  can  never  intrude  into  liter 
ature.  Its  intrusion  is  fatal,  and  it  is  this  fatality  that  has 
pursued  and  overtaken  and  destroyed  literary  effort  in  the 
South.  The  truth  might  as  well  be  told.  We  have  no 
Southern  literature  worthy  of  the  name,  because  an  attempt 
has  been  made  to  give  it  the  peculiarities  of  sectionalism 
rather  than  to  impart  to  it  the  flavor  of  localism. 


*  Constitution,  September  28,  October  5,  1879.  See  reproductions, 
Part  II.,  "Georgia  Crackers"  and  "Puritan  and  Cracker." 

"Constitution,  November  30,  1879  (editorial).  Compare  Constitu 
tion,  March  4,  1880,  review  of  "The  Georgians"  (by  Mrs.  Hammond, 
of  Atlanta). 


148  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

PROVINCIALISM  IN  LITERATURE— A  DEFENSE  OF 
BOSTON1 

We  suggest  that  serious  inquiry  be  made  why  it  is  neces 
sary  for  the  son  of  the  New  York  soap  boiler  or  glue  maker 
or  tobacco  cutter  (as  the  case  may  be)  to  have  a  coat  of 
arms  upon  his  carriage  or  a  crest  upon  his  stationery ;  and 
why,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  have  these  things,  a 
platter  of  chitterlings  in  relief  or  a  bull's  hoof  or  a  navy 
plug,  each  or  all  worked  in  with  the  American  bird  of  free 
dom,  would  not  be  as  appropriate  and  as  respectable  as  a 
crest  stolen  from  a  foreigner.  Why  should  there  not  be 
American  crests?  Why  should  there  not  be  an  American 
culture  as  distinctive  in  its  way  as  the  culture  that  is  Eng 
lish?  Why  should  Americans  strive  to  be  anything  else 
than  Americans?  Why  not  insist  that  the  provinciality  of 
American  literature  is  the  essential  quality  of  all  literature, 
the  one  quality  that  gives  distinctiveness  to  literary  effort? 

It  seems  almost  like  sacrilege  to  hear  Mr.  James  making 
excuses  for  Hawthorne  ["Essay  on  Hawthorne,"  by  Henry 
James,  Jr. ;  two  previous  essays]  to  English  readers  by 
enumerating  the  surroundings  that  the  American  lacked. 
He  had  no  sovereign,  no  court,  no  personal  loyalty,  no  aris 
tocracy,  no  Church,  no  clergy,  no  diplomatic  service,  no 
palaces,  no  castles,  no  manors,  no  cathedrals,  no  abbeys. 
All  these  things  and  many  more  are  catalogued  by  Mr, 
James  to  show  the  difficulties  under  which  Hawthorne  la 
bored,  this  man  who  had  before  him  all  the  ruins  of  human 
passion  and  who  was  surrounded  by  the  antiquity  of  the 
soul.  How  paltry,  how  shriveled  and  shrunken  does  the 
swallow-tail  culture  of  the  literary  snob  appear  in  contrast 
with  the  provinciality  which  invests  the  works  of  Haw 
thorne  with  the  swift  passion  of  New  England's  summers, 
the  wild,  desolate  beauty  of  her  autumns,  and  the  strange, 
penetrating  gloom  of  her  winters ! 

With  no  pretentions  whatever,  but  with  the  spontaneity 
of  genius,  Mr.  Harris  was,  as  we  have  seen,  in  his  own 
writing  illustrating  this  principle  of  localism.  The  pathos 

1Editorial,  Sunday  Constitution,  January  25,  1880. 


Biographical  149 

attending  the  close  of  Mr.  Turner's  life  at  the  untimely  age 
of  forty-two  is  heightened  when  we  think  of  how  he  might 
have  lived  to  less  than  sixty  and  have  seen  the  fulfillment 
of  his  prophecy  that  Joe  Harris  would  be  one  of  those  to 
do  the  writing  that  he  would  not  be  spared  to  do,  and  in 
part  through  Joe's  writing  the  fulfillment  of  his  desire  for 
a  distinctively  Southern  literature,  even  the  fulfillment  of  his 
more  specific  desire,  "And  prominent  in  our  books  I  wish 
the  negro  placed."1  For  now  Mr.  Harris  came  to  place 
alongside  the  Georgia  cracker,  "Major  Jones,"  the  Georgia 
negro,  "Uncle  Remus."  There  was  an  intimation  of  a 
forthcoming  volume  from  Mr.  Harris  in  the  Darien  (Geor 
gia)  Timber  Gazette,  which,  early  in  the  summer  of  1879, 
suggested  that  he  was  "revising  the  songs  and  sayings  of 
Uncle  Remus  for  publication."2  In  December  there  came 
from  him  an  expression  of  his  desire  to  collect  and  preserve 
in  permanent  form  the  plantation  legends,  when  his  "Round 
about  in  Georgia"  column  carried  this  request: 

We  would  be  glad  if  any  of  our  readers  who  may  chance 
to  remember  any  of  the  negro  fables  and  legends  so  popu 
lar  on  the  plantations  would  send  us  brief  outlines  of  the 
same.  No  matter  how  trivial  and  nonsensical  the  story  may 
seem  when  an  attempt  is  made  to  give  the  outline,  we  shall 
be  glad  to  have  it  all  the  same.  Many  of  our  readers  have 
doubtless  had  such  stories  recalled  by  reading  the  folklore 
of  Uncle  Remus,  and  they  will  confer  a  great  favor  if 
they  will  send  to  us  brief  outlines  of  the  main  incidents  and 
characters.  .  .  .  The  purpose  is  to  preserve  these  quaint 
myths  in  permanent  form.  Address  J.  C.  Harris,  care  of 
Constitution.3 

1See  page  147. 

flDarien  (Georgia)  lumber  Gazette,  as  quoted  in  the  Constitution, 
June  8,  1879. 

""Round  about  in  Georgia,"  December  18,  1879,  and  January  20, 
1880. 


150  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Colonel  Thompson  was 
among  the  very  first  to  respond  to  this  request — immediate 
ly.1  In  its  prospectus  for  1880  the  Constitution  announced 
a  series  of  the  legends.  On  January  20  the  editorial  column 
carried  a  paragraph  that  shows  how  Mr.  Harris  was  en 
gaged  in  working  up  the  outlines  into  the  finished  forms 
which  were  given  in  the  paper : 

Those  interested  in  the  trifles  that  appear  in  the  Constitu 
tion  under  the  title  of  "Uncle  Remus's  Folklore"'  were 
doubtless  surprised  as  well  as  mystified  to  find  that  in  the 
legend  printed  Sunday  there  was  no  sort  of  connection  be 
tween  the  heading  and  the  text.  .  .  .  The  heading  was 
intended  for  a  story  to  follow,  in  regular  serial  order,  the 
one  over  which  it  was  placed.  .  .  .  Not  a  line  nor  a  word 
of  that  story  is  yet  written.  Brer  Rabbit  himself,  with  all 
his  shifts  and  expedients,  would  fail  to  give  a  satisfactory 
explanation.  .  .  .  The  proper  heading  of  the  legend  is 
"Brer  Wolf  Appears  upon  the  Scene." 

Not  later  than  March,  Mr.  J.  C.  Derby,  an  alert  member 
of  the  firm  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  saw  the  desirability  of 
publishing  Mr.  Harris's  work  in  book  form,  corresponded 
with  him,  and  went  to  Atlanta  to  assist  in  selecting  the  ma 
terial  from  the  files  of  the  Constitution.2  And  in  Novem 
ber,  1880,  just  twelve  months  after  the  "Tar  Baby"  story 
(No.  II.)  had  appeared  in  the  Atlanta  paper,  the  sketches, 
songs,  and  proverbs,3  and  thirty-four  of  the  legends  were 
issued  from  the  press  in  the  first  edition  of  "Uncle  Remus : 
His  Songs  and  His  Sayings."* 

luRound  about  in  Georgia"  column,  December  20,  1879. 

*"Fifty  Years  among  Authors,  Books,  and  Publishers,"  J.  C.  Der 
by.  New  York,  1884.  Pages  433-440.  (Errors  in  dates;  see  Consti 
tution,  April  2,  1880.) 

"Negro  proverbs  had  been  first  published  in  the  Constitution  De 
cember  1 8,  1879. 

*See  editorial  announcements  of  the  book,  Constitution,  April  9 
and  November  19,  1880.  Also  see  editorial  November  28,  1880. 


Biographical  151 

During  the  twenty-eight  remaining  years  of  his  life,  twen 
ty  of  which  were  still  devoted  to  his  regular  work  as  an  edi 
tor  of  the  Constitution,  Mr.  Harris  redeemed  the  promises 
of  his  earlier  years  and  published  many  other  works  of  con 
siderable  merit.1  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  volume  to 
discuss  those  works.  "Uncle  Remus"  was  his  supreme  ac 
complishment.  Had  he  done  nothing  else,  his  name  would 
have  been  no  less  prominent.  He  had  done  a  work  essential 
to  American  literature,  because  it  reflected  an  integral  part 
of  life  in  America.  He  enshrined  in  literature  the  ante 
bellum  negro,  giving  a  precious  record  of  his  dialect  and 
folklore  and  projecting  him  upon  such  a  background  as  to 
give  us  a  glimpse  of  the  dear  departed  days  of  plantation 
life  in  the  South.  He  did  it  with  such  fidelity  as  to  receive 
from  his  contemporaries  universal  approval.  He  did  it  with 
such  art  as  to  put  it  beyond  restrictions  of  tongue  or  time. 
He  did  it  at  the  one  moment  when  it  could  be  done.  The  old 
negro  character,  which  the  world  so  soon  took  to  its  heart,  is 
replete,  notwithstanding  its  humor,  with  the  deep  pathos 
that  attends  the  passing  of  a  well-loved  type.  Therefore,  not 
unlike  "Hiawatha"  and  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  "Uncle 
Remus"  has  a  place  distinctively  his  own  in  our  literature 
as  long  as  that  literature  shall  live. 

But  surely  no  other  author  ever  took  his  place  among  the 
great  so  unconsciously.  Surely  no  other  was  ever  so  embar 
rassed  by  sudden  fame.  Surely  no  other  ever  clung  so  im 
movably  to  simplicity  and  humbleness.  The  profits  from 
his  book  quickly  enabled  him  to  buy  a  home  in  West  End, 
Atlanta ;  and,  except  as  his  regular  duties  demanded,  rarely 
was  he  to  be  found  elsewhere.  Always  protesting  that  he 
was  not  a  literary  man,  endeavoring,  with  the  aid  of  his 
wife,  to  escape  from  all  "literary  interviews,"  and  shrinking 

1See  "Bibliography." 


152  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

from  strangers,  social  functions,  and  any  kind  of  personal 
prominence,  but,  writing  with  spontaneous  interest  and 
pleasure,  holding  his  friends  in  warm  affection,  tenderly 
considerate  of  every  creature,  loving  little  children,  and 
befriending  the  needy,  he  went  modestly  about  his  daily 
duties  and  sought  to  live  in  quiet  happiness  with  his  family 
at  "The  Sign  of  the  Wren's  Nest."  Here  he  died  on  July 
3,  1908.  His  grave,  in  Westview  Cemetery,  is  fittingly 
marked  by  an  unhewn  granite  bowlder.  On  a  bronze  tablet 
appear  his  own  words : 

/  seem  to  see  before  me  the  smiling  faces  of 
thousands  of  children — some  young  and  fresh,  and 
some  wearing  the  friendly  marks  of  age,  but  all 
children  at  heart — and  not  an  unfriendly  face 
among  them.  And  out  of  the  confusion,  and  while 
I  am  trying  hard  to  speak  the  right  word,  I  seem 
to  hear  a  voice  lifted  above  the  rest,  saying:  "You 
have  made  some  of  us  happy."  And  so  I  feel  my 
heart  fluttering  and  my  lips  trembling,  and  I  have 
to  bow  silently  and  turn  away  and  hurry  back  into 
the  obscurity  that  fits  me  best. 


PART  II 

EARLY  LITERARY  EFFORTS 


HARRIS'S  EARLIEST  VERSE  AND  PROSE  COMPOSITIONS,  FROM 
THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN,  AS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  COUNTRY 
MAN  (1862-1866) 

FROM  an  exhaustive  search  through  the  files  of  The 
Countryman  (seven  issues  lacking),  there  is  listed 
below  every  contribution  of  Mr.  Harris  to  that  won 
derful  little  paper  with  which  his  career  began.1    Reproduc 
tions  not  appearing  in  Part  I.  are  given  here.     It  will  be 
observed  how  consistently  the  various  forms  of  signature 
are  used,  apparently  showing  a  preference  for  the  efforts 
in  verse : 

Vol.  III.,  No.  10,  December  i,  1862,  the  first  signed  con 
tribution  : 

INK 

Mr.  Countryman:  In  looking  over  a  file  of  an  old  paper 
I  find  the  following  recipe  for  making  black  ink,  which  may 
prove  valuable  to  you  as  well  as  your  readers,  owing  to  the 
scarcity  of  the  fluid.  Will  you  give  it  a  trial  and  report  the 
result?  J.  C.  HARRIS. 

[The  recipe  follows.] 

Vol.  III.,  No.  12,  December  15,  1862:  "Grumblers,"  J.  C. 
Harris.  The  second  signed  contribution.  Reproduced  in 
Part  I. 

Vol.  IV.,  No.  8,  February  17,  1863:  "Sabbath  Evening  in 
the  Country,"  J.  C.  Harris.  Reproduced  in  Part  I. 

Vol.  IV.,  No.  10 :  "Death"  (two-thirds  column;  reflec 
tive). 

^ee  full  description  of  The  Countryman  and  Harris's  connection 
with  it  in  Part  I. 

ess) 


156  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Vol.  IV.,  No.  ii :  "A  Dream"  (Carnival-Lent;  prices 
before  the  war  and  present  prices). 

Vol.  IV.,  No.  14:  "The  Progress  of  Civilization"  (one 
column  and  a  half). 

Vol.  V.,  No.  2,  April  14,  1863: 

Why  do  the  Yankees  delay  their  attack  upon  the  chief 
Rebel  port? 

Because  they  find  a  Charleston  too  heavy  for  their  gun 
boats  to  carry.  COUNTRYMAN'S  DEVIL. 

Vol.  V.,  No.  3 :  More  than  a  column  of  "Whys"  from  the 
"Countryman's  Devil/' 

Vol.  V.,  No.  4 :  A  number  of  "Whys"  not  signed. 
Vol.  V.,  No.  5  : 

Says  the  Constitutionalist:  "Our  brother  of  The  Country 
man  has  been  publishing  a  number  of  sharp  sayings  of  late 
which  he  uniformly  ascribes  to  'our  devil. '  Whereupon 
the  Confederate  Union  propounds  as  follows : 

"Why  is  the  editor  of  The  Countryman  like  the  enemy's 
fleet  when  they  attacked  Charleston? 

"Because  he  puts  his  'devil'  foremost." 

The  Countryman  editor  replied  :  "The  Confederate  Union 
is  disposed  to  undervalue  the  services  of  The  Countryman's 
devil.  If  it  only  knew  what  a  smart  devil  The  Countryman 
has,  it  would  not  do  so.  Just  ask  your  ']im'  about  it,  Broth 
er  Nisbit.  He  knows  'our  devil.' ' 

Vol.  V.,  No.  8:  "Disputants"  (ten  lines  against  wrangling 
over  trivialities,  like  dogs  over  a  bone). 

Vol.  V.,  No.  9 :  Further  word  plays,  as  above. 

Vol.  V.,  No.  1 1 :  Further  word  plays. 

Vol.  V.,  No.  13:  "Lost!"  J.  C.  Harris.  Reproduced  in 
Part  I. 

Vol.  VI.,  No.  9,  September  I,  1863:  "Hypocrites"  (one- 
third  column;  reflective). 

Vol.  VI.,  No.  10 :  "We  have  received  from  'J.  C.  H.'  a 
critique  to  show  that  'Hindoo'  is  not  a  rhyme  to  'window' ' 
(one-half  column  discussion  by  the  editor). 

Vol.  VI.,  No.  ii :  "Prodigality"  (ten  lines  declaring  the 
prodigal  worse  than  the  miser,  because  the  miser  hurts  only 
himself). 


Early  Literary  Efforts  157 

SENSUAL  PLEASURES 

Sensual  pleasures  twine  around  our  virtues,  as  the  boa- 
constrictor  does  the  antelope,  and  leave  them  lubricated  in 
their  slime,  only  awaiting  a  favorable  opportunity  to  swal 
low  them  whole.  Of  such  pleasures  it  may  be  said  that  they 
sustain  us  in  our  youth  only  to  destroy  us  in  our  old  age. 
They  should  be  avoided  with  a  wholesome  dread  only 
equaled  by  the  fear  of  an  endless  torment.  T.  C.  HARRIS. 

Vol.  XL,  No.  I,  November  3,  1863  : 
PARTYISM 

Three  years  ago  partyism  ran  high  in  Georgia.  The  last 
Presidential  campaign  in  the  old  United  States  was  one  of 
the  most  hotly  contested  elections  ever  held  in  this  State; 
and  our  people,  seeing  the  effect  of  such  political  struggles, 
resolved,  when  Georgia  seceded,  to  remember  no  old  party 
differences,  to  draw  no  new  lines  of  party  faction.  Some 
of  the  most  influential  men  and  presses  in  the  State  advo 
cated  this  course.  For  one  year  things  went  on  very 
smoothly  in  their  new  channel ;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time 
any  one,  to  notice  closely,  could  see  a  faint  indication  of  the 
revival  of  old  party  lines  and  differences.  This  indication 
increased  day  by  day,  until  it  became  almost  general;  and 
in  1863,  at  the  last  gubernatorial  campaign,  it  burst  out  in  a 
perfect  tornado  of  fanatical  partyism.  New  differences 
were  brought  forth  and  old  ones  renewed.  Political  fury 
was  at  its  height.  Even  those  who  were  the  first  to  propose 
to  lay  aside  all  bickering  and  strife  were  the  first  to  break 
their  own  rules ;  and  even  as  they  broke  them  they  warned 
others  of  the  results  of  party  differences.  Such  was  their 
fanatical  furor  about  the  gubernatorial  candidates ! 

"I'll  have  Hill,"  says  one  editor.  "No,  you  won't!"  an 
swers  another.  "But  I'll  be  if  I  don't!"  rejoins  the 

first.  And  thus  they  go.  The  above  may  apply  to  the 
supporters  of  Brown  also. 

To  be  an  editor  requires  sense  and  a  knowledge  of  right; 
but  if  it  isn't  wanting  in  the  craniums  of  some  of  the  edi 
torial  fraternity,  then  we  don't  know  what  it  requires  to  be 
an  editor.  J.  C.  HARRIS. 


158  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Vol.  XIX.,  No.  10,  March  8,  1864:  Two  moralizings 
(eight  lines  each). 

Vol.  XIX.,  No.  39:  "Nelly  White."  (Written  for  The 
Countryman.)  By  Joel  C.  Harris.  (Poem;  see  page  159.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  5 :  "The  Battle  Bird,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris, 
Turnwold,  Georgia,  1864.  (Poem;  see  page  159.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  7 :  "Nature,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris,  Turn- 
wold,  Georgia,  1864.  (Sonnet;  see  Part  I.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  3,  January  17,  1865:  "Ruaene!  Ruaene!" 
by  Joel  C.  Harris.  (Five  stanzas  and  four-line  refrain.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  4:  "Macaria,"  J.  C.  H.  (Reproduced  in 
Part  I.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  13:  "Accursed,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris. 
(Poem;  see  page  161.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  14:  "Moonlight,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris,  Turn- 
wold,  Georgia.  (Poem;  see  page  162.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  1 6 :  "Murder,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris.  (Poem ; 
see  page  163.) 

Vol.  XX.,  No.  20:  "Obituary,"  by  J.  C.  H.  (On  the 
death  of  a  child  at  Turnwold;  see  page  164.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  4:  "Christmas,"  by  J.  C.  H.,  December  25, 
1865.  (One  and  one-third  column;  see  Part  I.)  "The 
Old  Year  and  the  New,"  by  J.  C.  H.,  midnight,  December 
31,  1865.  (See  page  164.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  2,  February  6,  1866:  "A  Vision,"  by  Joel 
C.  Harris,  Turnwold,  Georgia.  (Poem;  see  page  165.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  3 :  "Poe  and  Griswold,"  J.  C.  H.  (One 
column  and  a  fifth;  unfavorable  comments  on  Griswold's 
biography  of  Poe;  see  page  167.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  4 :  "Moselle,"  by  Joel  C  Harris.  (Poem ; 
reproduced  in  Part  I.) 

Vol.  XXL,  No.  6 :  "Our  Minnie  Grey,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris, 
Turnwold,  Georgia.  (Poem ;  reproduced  in  Part  I.) 

"There  are  two  things  continually  before  our  eyes  which 
we  never  see :  our  own  faults  and  our  neighbors'  virtues." 

T     r*    TT 

Vol." XXI.,  No.  7:  "Mary,"  by  Joel  C.  Harris,  Turnwold, 
Georgia.  (Poem;  see  Part  I.) 


Early  Literary  Efforts  159 

NELLY  WHITE1 
(Written  for  The  Countryman) 

BY  JOEL  C.   HARRIS 

The  autumn  moon  rose  calm  and  clear, 

And  nearly  banished  night, 
While  I  with  trembling  footsteps  went 

To  part  with  Nelly  White. 

I  thought  to  leave  her  but  a  while, 

And,  in  the  golden  West, 
To  seek  the  fortune  that  should  make 

My  darling  Nelly  blest. 

For  I  was  of  the  humble  poor, 
Who  knew  that  love,  though  bold, 

And  strong  and  firm  within  itself, 
Was  stronger — bound  in  gold  ! 

And  when  I  knelt  at  Mammon's  shrine, 

An  angel  ever  spake 
Approvingly — since  what  I  did, 

I  did  for  Nelly's  sake ! 

Again  I  neared  the  sacred  spot 

Where  she  and  I  last  met — 
With  merry  laugh  does  Nelly  come 

To  meet  her  lover  yet? 


Again  the  moon  rose  in  the  sky 

And  gave  a  pitiful  light, 
Which  shone  with  dreary  gleam  upon 

The  grave  of  Nelly  White! 

THE  BATTLE  BIRD 

BY  JOEL  C.   HARRIS 

It  is  related  that  at  the  battle  of  Resaca  a  mocking  bird 
perched  itself  within  the  Confederate  lines  and  maintained 

*Not  unlikely  his  first  poem,  three  efforts  in  the  composition  of 
Jthe  verses  appearing  in  his  exercise  book  of  those  days. 


160  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

its  position  throughout  the  whole  of  the  fight,  giving  utter 
ance  at  times  to  wild  and  varied  melody  common  to  birds  of 
its  species.  The  fearlessness  of  the  bird,  combined  with  the 
singularity  of  the  incident,  renders  it  a  fit  subject  for  a 
poem.  Hence  these  humble  lines. 

Resaca !  on  thy  bloody  battle  plain 

How  many  a  scene  of  rueful,  sad  disaster, 
When  groan  to  groan  was  echoed  back  again, 

And  Death  was  there  as  master ! 

How  many  a  youth  in  battle  proudly  fell, 

Who,  lying  in  his  blood  as  dying  victor, 
Gave  back  in  agony  the  vengeful  yell 

As  brave  as  Roman  lictor ! 

How  many  a  soldier  in  his  death  sleep  dreamed 
That  once  again  he  trod  "the  realms  of  fairy," 

While  down  his  careworn,  sunburnt  cheek  there  streamed 
A  tear — perchance  for  "Mary"! 

And  many  an  infant,  tranquilly  at  play, 

Ne'er  dreamed  that  Woe  and  Grief  and  Death  were  flying, 
But  played  the  while,  nor  thought  that  "father"  lay 

Among  the  dead  and  dying ! 

But  'mid  the  roar  and  clash  and  din  of  fight, 
While  rifle  shot  and  bugle  call  were  mingling, 

Perched  on  a  lonely  tree  top,  full  in  sight, 
The  Battle  Bird  was  singing! 

The  fight  raged  on ;  but  still  the  soothing  song 
Rang  peacefully,  with  cadence  soft  and  mellow, 

Above  the  groan  and  curse  of  weak  and  strong 
And  brazen  cannon's  bellow! 

Withal  it  was  a  gentle  lay  and  sad ; 

Its  peaceful  swell  the  horrid  day  was  mocking. 
O !  what  was  there  to  make  the  bird  so  glad  ? 

Its  happiness  was  shocking ! 

But  ah !  it  prophesies  a  time  to  come 

Which  has  been  wept  for  by  our  fathers  hoary, 

When  Peace  with  weary  feet  shall  cease  to  roam 
And  take  her  seat  in  glory 


Early  Literary  Efforts  161 

Within  our  nation's  gashed  and  bleeding  breast — 
The  dawning  of  a  glorious,  glad  to-morrow — 

And  speak,  in  angel  tones,  a  queen's  behest : 
"Release  the  Land  from  Sorrow!" 
TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA,  1864. 

ACCURSED 

BY  JOEL  C.   HARRIS 

A  man  and  a  woman  met  in  the  wood, 
Where  the  virgin  blooms  of  spring  begin : 

The  woman  was  weak,  but  pure  and  good ; 
In  the  heart  of  the  man  was  sin. 

They  met  at  the  trysting  place  to  woo, 

And  the  moon  hid  her  face  behind  a  cloud ; 

The  wind  held  its  breath  and  never  blew. 
And  the  moon  waned  away  in  her  shroud. 

And  they  parted  there  at  the  trysting  tree, 

And  the  moon  shone  out  with  her  blessed  light, 

And  the  gray  owl  shrieked  with  fiendish  glee 
At  the  sight  she  saw  that  night. 

A  woman  in  tears  paced  up  and  down — 
Paced  up  and  down  her  narrow  room ; 

Her  face  was  dark  with  a  wicked  frown, 
Making  wretched  and  darker  the  gloom. 

Her  flowing  hair,  with  its  ebon  dyes, 

Had  broken  the  bands  of  its  golden  clasp; 

The  tears  fell  fast  from  her  great  black  eyes, 
And  she  breathed  with  a  heaving  gasp. 

She  looked  like  the  Lady  does  in  the  Play 
When  she  tells  her  husband  to  murder  the  King ; 

And  she  sobbed  and  wept  in  the  twilight  gray 
And  scowled  at  her  lover's  ring. 

A  man  paced  up  and  down  in  his  room 

And  clasped  his  hands  to  his  aching  head; 

He  shrunk  from  a  shade  in  the  dusky  gloom, 
For  the  woman  he  wronged  is  dead ! 

ii 


1 62  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

She  died  as  all  women  die  on  earth 
Whom  men  have  wronged  with  deceitful  lies, 

And  she  left  a  babe  on  her  father's  hearth — 
She  died  as  a  floweret  dies. 

Whene'er  men  wrong  a  sinless  soul, 

You  know,  they  forever  curse  their  own ; 

For  fate  on  fate  must  ever  roll — 
Men  reap  what  they  have  sown ! 

A  man  paced  up  and  down  a  stream, 

A  man  'neath  the  weight  of  a  curse  bowed  down ; 

His  eye  shone  bright  with  a  maniac  gleam, 
And  despair  was  in  his  frown. 

A  shivering  glance  at  the  rushing  river, 
A  longing  look  at  the  bright,  green  world, 

A  leap,  and  the  man  was  hid  forever 
Where  the  eddies  foamed  and  curled. 
TURN  WOLD,  GEORGIA. 

MOONLIGHT 

BY  JOEL  C.   HARRIS 

It  falleth  in  the  valley ; 

It  resteth  on  the  hill; 
It  lies  with  placid  sadness 

Where  sleep  the  dead  so  still. 

It  floats  with  mystic  grandeur 
Around  the  village  church; 

It  shrouds  with  silver  splendor 
The  tall  and  ancient  birch. 

It  floods  with  pensive  radiance 
The  climbing  cypress  vine, 

And  peeps  in  at  the  lattice 
Where  sleeps  a  love  of  mine. 

Among  the  moldering  gravestones 

It  trails  a  dreamy  haze, 
Hiding  the  souls  immortal 

From  sinful  human  gaze. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  163 

It  flingeth  ghostly  shadows 

Beneath  the  grave  old  oaks, 
Where  hides  the  owl  in  daylight, 

And  where  the  raven  croaks. 

But  blessed  be  the  moonlight, 

And  may  it  nightly  shine 
Upon  the  creeping  cypress 

And  on  that  love  of  mine ! 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA. 

MURDER 

BY  JOEL  C.  HARRIS 

Up  through  the  woods,  from  out  the  glen, 

Came  a  quick  and  a  stifled  shriek 
Which  broke  but  faintly  on  the  ear, 

It  was  so  short  and  weak, 
As  if  some  hand  had  frightened  back 

The  words  it  tried  to  speak. 
An  ominous  bird  on  the  leafless  oak 
Suddenly  hushed  its  dismal  croak 

And  whetted  its  horny  beak. 

From  out  the  woods,  from  out  the  vale 

Came  the  sound  upon  the  night, 
Striving  to  call  some  living  thing 

To  see  the  awful  sight 
Of  a  human  body  lying  in  blood, 

With  its  face  so  ghastly  white. 
The  screech  owl  saw  the  deathly  scene, 
Saw  the  stain  of  blood  on  the  grass  so  green, 

And  shivered  with  affright. 

Twas  but  a  step  down  in  the  glen, 

From  the  old  birch  tree  but  a  rod. 
The  murderer  had  a  knife  in  his  hand; 

And  at  his  feet,  on  the  sod, 
Lay  the  body  of  the  murdered  man, 

Now  but  a  lifeless  clod; 
For  the  horrid  deed  had  been  done  well, 
While  the  soul  of  the  man  took  its  flight  and  fell 

At  the  very  feet  of  God. 


164  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Now  on  the  murderer's  sinful  eyes 

Be  forever  placed  a  ban ! 
No  more  shall  they  be  closed  in  sleep ; 

But  nightly  shall  they  scan 
The  face  and  form  of  the  shrieking  one 

Whose  life  he  made  a  span, 
And  the  ghastly  wounds  that  his  hate  had  made, 
The  print  of  his  hand,  the  work  of  his  blade 

In  the  breast  of  the  murdered  man ! 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA. 

OBITUARY1 

Died  in  Putnam  County,  Georgia,  April  27,  1865,  Joseph 
Addison  Turner,  infant  son  of  Burges  and  Emily  Eskew, 
aged  one  year  and  two  months.  Christ  has  said :  "Suffer 
the  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not: 
for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Therefore,  when 
little  children  go  to  their  Heavenly  Father  we  should  not 
mourn.  Rather  let  us  weep  for  the  living,  who  are  left 
here  in  this  cold,  cruel  world  without  the  cheering  smiles 
of  those  who  have  drawn  their  mantles  around  them  and 
lain  down  "to  pleasant  dreams."  And  although  little  Joe's 
body  lies  in  the  ground,  his  soul  rests  in  the  bosom  of  his 
God. 

Between  him  and  the  ills  of  life 

He  saw  an  angel  stand ; 
He,  smiling,  reached  his  little  arms 
And  grasped  the  angel's  hand. 

J.  C.  H. 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW2 

I  love  and  reverence  the  past,  notwithstanding  there  is 
something  of  sadness  and,  withal,  of  grief  in  the  cup  it  has 
pressed  to  my  lips.  In  reverencing  the  past  I  am  suspicious 
of  the  future.  And  who  is  not?  As  our  friend  the  gentle 

Compare  "Juliette"  and  "jn  Memoriam,"  Part  I.,  pages  109,  no. 

2This  theme  was  worked  over  again  and  again  in  editorials  and 
verse.  See  Part  I.,  pages  72  and  107,  and  Atlanta  Constitution, 
December  30,  1877  (editorial). 


Early  Literary  Efforts  165 

Elia  has  remarked :  "The  future,  being  everything,  is  noth 
ing  ;  the  past,  being  nothing,  is  everything."  What  have  we 
to  do  with  the  future?  It  belongs  to  God.  The  past  be 
longs  to  us ;  though,  it  is  true,  we  have  rendered  it  into  the 
hands  of  the  Almighty  for  safekeeping,  nevertheless  it  is 
ours.  With  these  thoughts  I  grasp  the  old  year  by  the  hand 
and  cry  in  the  words  of  the  sweet  Tennyson : 

"He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim — 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see; 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  Year,  you  shall  not  die ! 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  Year,  if  you  must  die !" 

Yes,  weVe  all  "half  a  mind  to  die  with  you,  Old  Year,  if 
you  must  die,"  for  we  know  you  have  got  our  dear  friends 
with  you.  Treat  them  gently,  Old  Year,  for  our  sakes. 
Keep  them  close  to  your  bosom,  away  from  the  driving 
snow  and  ice  which  the  New  Year  will  beat  in  our  faces. 
You  have  a  spectral  band  along  with  you,  Old  Year;  for 
cherries  will  wither,  and  roses  will  fade,  but  you  knew  them 
in  their  brightest  days.  So  handle  their  ashes  carefully. 

The  heart  of  Time  is  beating  the  knell  of  the  Old  Year. 
Twelve  chimes,  and  he  will  be  no  more.  Shake  him  by 
the  hand.  Send  your  love  to  the  ashes  of  your  friends — 
Gone! 

But  the  soul  of  the  Old  Year  has  transmigrated  into  the 
New,  and,  by  a  metempsychosis  of  Memory,  our  dear  de 
parted  friends  will  still  walk  with  us.  J.  C.  H. 

Midnight,  December  31,  1865. 

A  VISION 

BY  JOEL  C.   HARRIS 

Methinks  I  see,  cloud-capped,  the  tower  of  Fame, 

Her  glory  banner  flouting  the  dim  air, 
Inscribed  upon  its  folds  her  empty  name, 

For  that  alone  hath  its  existence  there. 


166  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

And  there  I  see  pale-faced  Ambition  stand 
With  gleaming  eye  upon  that  mountain  height, 

Holding  a  quivering  heart  in  either  hand, 
And  gloating  on  them  with  a  fierce  delight. 

Gnashing  with  rage  his  foaming,  famished  teeth, 
Close  by,  I  hear  the  bloodhound  Hunger's  bay, 

While  the  deep  bosom  of  the  vale  beneath 
Kennels  his  howlings  as  they  die  away. 

Not  far  away  Disaster  writhes  and  groans 
While  fiercely  clutching  at  the  throats  of  men  ; 

She  seizes  one,  and  now  his  dismal  moans 
Rise  for  a  moment,  then  subside  again. 

Here  Avarice  presses  to  his  palsied  breast 
The  orphan's  gold,  the  widow's  souvenir, 

And  mutters  in  his  sleep  with  dark  unrest, 
As  if  the  fiends  were  in  his  heart  astir. 

I  see  the  lofty,  gaudy  plumes  of  Pride 
Waving  above  a  bosom  white  as  snow — 

Surf-beaten  rock,  where  Feeling  wrecked  and  died, 
Leaving  but  hollowness  of  heart  below. 

I  see  the  pearls  of  Riches  flashing  by; 

Her  rustling  silks  and  trailing  robes  I  hear — 
Her  rustling  silks  the  echoes  of  a  sigh, 

Her  glistening  pearls  fit  emblems  of  a  tear. 

Fair  Beauty  blooms  like  the  first  flower  of  morn, 
And  from  her  eye  shines  forth  a  gentle  trust ; 

But  Slander  points  at  her  the  hand  of  Scorn, 
And  Beauty  droops  and  fades  away  to  dust. 

Here  Sorrow  sits  and  hums  a  solemn  tune, 
Gazing  on  all  things  with  a  vacant  stare, 

Moaning  beneath  the  pale-faced,  weeping  moon, 
With  her  black  mantle  floating  in  the  air. 

Here  gaunt  Despair,  the  child  of  Sorrow,  sits 
And  makes  loud  waitings  in  the  ear  of  night; 

And  here  Revenge  with  ceaseless  movement  flits, 
But  never  takes  a  grand  nor  lofty  flight. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  167 

Here  base  Ingratitude  flies  through  the  air 
And  holds  on  high  her  fiery,  treacherous  dart, 

Ready  to  strike  some,  however  fair, 

And  on  its  point  impale  some  human  heart. 

Remorse  is  walking  in  the  fading  light  ; 

Her  scowling  cries  are  echoing  far  and  wide ; 
She  clasps  some  mortal  to  her  breast  to-night 

Whose  frightened  screams  roll  down  the  mountain  side. 

I  see  red  War  binding  upon  his  brow 

The  reeking  laurel  and  the  gory  bay ; 
The  widow  and  the  orphan  meekly  bow 

Before  his  frown  and  wildly  weep  and  pray. 

Behind  red  War  grim  Desolation  stands 

Amid  the  ruins  of  a  thousand  years, 
And,  waving  in  the  air  his  magic  hands, 

The  crumbling  home  of  man  quick  disappears. 

Thus  each  and  all  their  horrid  orgies  hold 

And  shriek  and  curse  and  vent  their  vengeful  spleen, 

Till  one  more  pure,  the  boldest  of  the  bold, 
Stalks  in  among  them  with  a  fearless  mien. 

Above  them  all  brave  Virtue  boldly  rears 
Her  throne  and  gazes  on  the  frightful  scene; 

And  now  each  demon  swiftly  disappears 
Before  the  glances  of  her  eye  serene. 

TURNWOLD,  GEORGIA. 

POE  AND  GRISWOLD 

One  of  the  most  miserably  gotten-up  affairs,  perhaps,  that 
ever  intruded  itself  upon  the  reading  public  of  America  was 
Griswold's  biography  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  affixed  to  the 
works  of  that  lamented  genius.  Leaving  altogether  out  of 
view  the  heartless  malignity  and  maliciousness  which  it 
contains,  there  is  enough  of  nonsensical  mediocrity,  patron 
izing  inferiority,  and  ridiculous  envy  to  damn  it  forever  in 
the  mind  of  any  reader  of  taste.  Griswold  does  not  enter 
at  all  into  the  humor  of  Poe,  nor  does  he  appreciate  the 


168  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

idiosyncrasies  of  that  author's  diction.  For  instance,  when 
Poe  defies  the  literary  clique  of  Boston  and  then,  as  if  to 
appease  and  ridicule  them  at  the  same  time,  tells  them  he 
was  born  in  their  town,  Griswold,  with  a  grave  sagacity 
truly  laughable,  sagely  informs  us  that  Poe  could  not  have 
been  in  his  right  mind  when  he  stated  Boston  was  the  place 
of  his  nativity;  for,  persists  Griswold,  he  was  born  in  Bal 
timore  !  And,  to  crown  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  affair, 
the  consistent  Puritan  divine,  after  holding  before  the  eye 
of  the  public  and  greatly  aggravating  every  little  misde 
meanor  of  Poe — after  doing  all  this,  the  Rev.  Rufus  W. 
Griswold  cries  in  the  overflowing  benevolence  of  his  heart: 
"De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum!"  It  is  plain  that  Griswold  was 
— just  what  one  might  expect  from  the  company  he  kept. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  are  indebted  alone  to  a  crea 
ture  of  romance  for  the  description  of  Poe's  temper  and 
habits  as  given  by  Griswold.  In  his  life  of  Poe  he  says, 
"He  was  in  many  respects  like  Francis  Vivian  in  Bulwer's 
novel  of  'The  Caxtons/  "  and  gives  us  the  description  of 
Bulwer's  creation  of  romance  without  using  quotation 
marks  or  in  any  manner  only  the  most  doubtful  letting  us 
know  that  he  is  copying  from  Bulwer  word  for  word. 

Again,  to  show  his  critical  ability  and  to  parade  before 
the  reader  his  analytical  astuteness,  he  says,  speaking  of  the 
author  of  "The  Raven":  "He  was  not  remarkably  original 
in  invention/'  This  is  of  a  piece  with  Griswold's  whole 
production  and  similar  to  his  criticisms  upon  several  of  the 
prose  writers  of  America,  where  he  mentions  an  author 
altogether  mediocre,  "whose  style/'  he  says,  "if  not  possess 
ing  the  simplicity  and  smoothness  of  Goldsmith,  at  least  is 
more  vigorous  and  terse  than  that  of  Addison." 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  writing  of 
Poe's  biography  fell  into  the  hands  of  Griswold;  and  I  hope 
even  yet  that  we  may  have  an  edition  of  the  works  of  that 
great  genius  honorable  alike  to  his  memory  and  to  us  as  an 
honest  people.  J.  C.  H. 


II 

HARRIS'S  FIRST  SHORT  STORIES,  LITERARY  CRITICISMS,  ETC., 
AS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  ATLANTA  CONSTITUTION 

FROM  a  careful  search  through  the  files  of  the 
Atlanta  Constitution  from  1876  to  1881,  there  are 
listed  below  all  of  Mr.  Harris's  signed  contributions 
to  the  paper  during  that  period,  including  some  distinctive 
editorials,  literary  reviews,  etc.,  not  signed,  but  generally 
known  to  be  his.  Practically  all  these  were  published  in  the 
Sunday  issues,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  did  no  other 
writing  at  this  time.  In  the  reproductions  that  follow  it  is 
especially  interesting  to  trace  the  development  of  Mr.  Har 
ris's  talent  for  narrative  writing.  It  will  be  seen  how  he 
proceeded  from  fact  to  fiction.  Characters,  incidents,  and 
setting,  with  more  or  less  camouflage,  were  taken  from  life, 
generally  as  they  had  fallen  under  his  observation  in  and 
near  his  boyhood  home  in  Putnam  County,  Georgia.  No 
attempt  has  been  made  to  designate  here  any  of  his  "heavy" 
editorials;  and  the  "Uncle  Remus"  matter,  having  been 
fully  discussed  in  Part  I.,  is  not  included. 

1876 

October  26:  The  "Round  about  in  Georgia"  column  of 
brief  paragraphic  news  and  comment  began.  Harris's  first 
negro  sketch,  "Jeems  Robinson,"  appeared. 

December  5 :  "A  Remembrance,"  J.  C.  Harris.  (First 
signed  contribution;  see  Part  I.,  page  99.) 

1877 

January  14:  "Juliette,"  J.  C.  Harris.  (See  Part  I.,  page 
109.) 

(169) 


170  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

February  14:  "An  Electoral  Ballad,"  J.  C.  Harris.  (Six 
stanzas.) 

February  15 :  "A  Legislative  Idyl,"  J.  C.  Harris.  (Eight 
stanzas.) 

March  4:  "An  Atlanta  Poet."     (Review.) 
March  18:  "Love  in  Idleness."     (Review.)     "A  Country 
Newspaper."     (Editorial  narrative.) 

April  i :  "Seward's  Georgia  Sweetheart."  (Editorial 
narrative.) 

April  15:  "Sassafras  in  Season."    (Editorial.) 
April  22:  "The  May  Magazines."     (Review.) 
May  6:  "A  Summer  Mood."     (Editorial.)     "A  Guzzled 
Guest,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 

May  13 :  "On  Wings  of  Wind,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 
May  20:  "Tale  of  Two  Tramps,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 
May  27:  "Proemial  to  Putnam,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 
"Cornfield  Peas."     (Editorial.) 

June  3:  "One  Man's  History,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 
June  10:  "A  Romantic  Rascal,"  J.  C.  H.     (Narrative.) 
October  14:  "Uncle  Remus  as  a  Rebel,"  J.  C.  H.    (Nar 
rative.  ) 

October  28:  "An  Autumn  Mood."     (Editorial.) 
November  25:  "A  Country  Church."     (Editorial.) 
December  9:  "The  Old  Plantation."     (Editorial.) 
December  16:  "A  Georgia  Fox  Hunt,"  J.  C.  H.    (Narra 
tive.) 

1878 

January  i :  "The  Old  Year  and  the  New,"  J.  C.  Harris. 
(See  page  164.) 

April  16-September  10:  "The  Romance  of  Rockville,"  by 
Joel  Chandler  Harris."  (Serial  story  in  the  Weekly  Con 
stitution.  ) 

August  3:  Political  correspondence  from  Gainesville, 
Georgia,  signed  J.  C.  H.  and  H. 

September  14-17:  Political  correspondence  from  Barnes- 
ville,  Georgia,  J.  C.  H. 

1879 

March  22 :  "The  Art  of  Murder."     (Editorial.) 
September  28 :  "Georgia  Crackers :  Types  and  Shadows." 
(Editorial.) 


Early  Literary  Efforts  171 

October  5 :  "The  Puritan  and  the  Cracker."     (Editorial.) 

November  23:  "My  Sorrow's  Sign  (Vilanelle),"  J.  C. 
Harris.  (Six  stanzas.) 

November  30:  "A  Ballad  of  Youth,"  J.  C.  Harris. 
(Twenty-eight  lines.)  "Literature  in  the  South."  (Edi 
torial;  see  Part  I.,  page  147.) 

December  7 :  "A  Word  to  the  Wise,"  J.  C.  Harris.  (  Nine 
stanzas.) 

December  25  :  "Christmas  Time."     (Editorial.) 

1880 

January  25 :  "Provincialism  in  Literature :  A  Defense  of 

Boston.""  (Editorial;  see  Part  I.,  page  148.) 
March  4 :  "A  Pair  of  Books."     (Editorial.) 
March  28:  "Hopkins's  Heifers."     (Narrative.) 
June  20-24:   Political   correspondence   from   Cincinnati, 

Uncle  Remus  and  J.  C.  H. 

1881 

January  26:  Magazine  reviews. 

February  20:  "As  to  Southern  Literature."    (Editorial.) 

June  29:  "The  Georgians."     (Editorial  review.) 

CHARACTERISTIC  SUNDAY  EDITORIALS 

SASSAFRAS  IN  SEASON 

After  all,  think  it  over  as  you  may,  the  seasons  of  the 
year  are  mere  sentiments;  and  sentiment,  the  sterner  logi 
cians  say,  is  a  mere  delusion.  And  yet  spring,  whether  it 
be  a  season  or  a  sentiment,  is  no  delusion.  When  a  prac 
tical  jay  bird  erects  his  efficient  topknot  and  gives  it  out  to 
his  neighbors  in  tones  loud  and  shrill  enough  to  be  emphatic 
and  portentous  that  spring  has  come  to  stay,  fidicious  house 
wives,  regarding  with  some  solicitude  the  health  of  their 
various  families,  will  begin  to  watch  for  the  vendors  of  the 
sassafras.  This  has  come  to  be  so  much  the  custom  with 
those  who  dwell  in  these  higher  latitudes  of  health  and  re 
pose  that,  in  the  absence  of  either  jay  bird  or  sassafras 
root,  summer  would  be  upon  us  ere  we  knew  that  spring 
had  fairly  begun.  Sassafras  is  one  of  the  accessories  of 


172  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  season — nay,  it  is  one  of  the  necessities.  Only  the  pun 
gent  and  fragrant  odor  of  the  root  could  make  the  delusion 
complete.  Let  the  winds  that  March  hath  left  behind  howl 
as  they  may.  Let  the  rains  of  December  beat  upon  the  bare 
head  of  April.  It  is  all  one  until  sassafras  tea  is  ordered  by 
the  head  of  the  household  as  a  part  of  the  daily  regimen. 
According  to  a  superstition  well  grounded — and,  we  may 
say,  well  founded — the  strict  and  continuous  use  of  sassa 
fras  tea  is  calculated  to  cool  the  blood  and  prevent  that  ac 
cumulation  of  boils  which  seems  to  be  among  the  results  of 
the  quickening  season  which  with  impartial  dispensation 
produces  alike  the  modest  violet  and  the  gaudy  carbuncle. 
As  for  us,  give  us  sassafras  tea.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
season  more  fragrant  or  more  stimulating.  It  is  well 
enough  for  those  who  have  leisure  forever  standing  at  their 
elbows  and  smiling  an  invitation  to  wander  in  the  pomp 
and  pride  of  lonely  circumstance  among  the  majestic  woods, 
inhaling  the  piquant  flavor  of  the  honeysuckle,  enjoying  the 
resinous  balm  that  the  tall  pines  dispense  with  every  sigh, 
and  envying  the  suppleness  of  the  ground  squirrel — a  sup 
pleness,  gentle  reader,  that  seems  to  know  no  superannua 
tion — it  is  well  enough,  we  say,  for  those  who  are  addicted 
to  these  things  to  prate  about  the  beauties  of  nature;  but 
when  all  these  can  be  found  concentrated  in  one  single  cup 
of  the  beverage  known  as  sassafras  tea  and  can  be  enjoyed 
in  a  dozen  ravenous  gulps,  how  unnecessary  it  is  for  one 
to  trust  himself  among  the  spiders  and  the  red  bugs,  which, 
unmindful  of  the  year,  the  season,  or  the  day,  stand  ever 
ready,  when  the  sun  is  out,  to  fall  upon  man  with  teeth 
and  toenail ! 

Thus  it  happens  that  the  odor  of  sassafras  is  one  of  the 
truest  harbingers  of  spring.  Sentiment — ah!  thou  knowest 
it  well,  romantic  young  vagabond ! — whether  of  time,  place, 
or  season,  is  closely  allied  to  the  sense  of  smell,  else  where 
fore  doth  even  a  mention  of  the  shrub  known  as  life  ever 
lasting  bring  back  to  thee  vague  memories  of  the  serene  and 
stately  old  lady  who,  mysteriously  enough  to  thy  remem 
brance,  called  herself  thy  grandmother?  Confess  it  now  or 
go  thy  way.  Did  she  not,  ere  thy  childishness  had  outgrown 
its  inquisitiveness,  send  thee  forth  upon  many  a  despondent 
tour  to  gather  life  everlasting,  the  which  she  carefully  scat- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  173 

tered  through  the  capacious  trunks,  the  contents  of  which 
for  years  and  years  afterwards  were  a  subject  of  consider 
ably  more  interest  than  the  contents  of  the  cavern  into 
which  the  lamp-cleaning  propensities  of  Aladdin  precipitat 
ed  him  ?  Deny  it  not.  It  is  known  of  all  men  and  is  fresh 
in  the  experience  of  those  who,  somewhat  foolishly,  treasure 
up  these  things  as  precious  memories. 

As  to  the  sassafras,  it  would  be  well  to  remember  that  it 
is  not  good  to  brew  it  into  a  beverage  when,  as  now,  the 
season  is  as  cold  as  the  tips  of  a  barber's  fingers.  Wait 
until  the  poplar  leaves  have  grown  as  large  as  squirrels' 
ears;  wait  until  the  barley  gets  knee-high  to  the  awkward 
goslings;  wait,  in  short,  until  our  barometrical  jay  bird 
poises  himself  on  one  leg  and  bawls  forth  to  the  world  that 
the  sap  of  spring  has  begun  to  permeate  and  quicken  the 
dry  bones  of  autumn. 

A  SUMMER  MOOD 

Happily,  we  can  trust  easily  to  appearances  in  this  genial 
clime,  where  the  bluebird  whistles  no  unseasonable  note, 
where  the  sparrow  knows  where  to  build  her  little  nest  of 
wool  and  hay  and  moss  and  how  to  lay  the  little  twigs 
across,  and  where  the  red  bird,  dressed  in  his  scarlet  suit, 
knows  precisely  when  to  flit  through  the  green  leaves  of 
the  trees  like  an  animated  fireball.  We  read  of  snows  in 
Quebec  and  on  the  plains  and  of  perpetual  ice  at  the  antip 
odes;  but  what  are  they  to  us?  Are  we  not  provided 
against  inclemency  ?  Spring  is  most  effectual  and  eloquent 
ly  symbolized  in  the  prevailing  fashions.  A  fair  young 
girl  trips  laughingly  by  in  a  white  dress  trimmed  with 
flowers;  a  precocious  youth  prances  along  with  a  rose  in 
his  buttonhole,  a  tempting  bait  for  the  girls  to  nibble  at; 
and,  lo!  spring  is  upon  us,  a  season  at  once  delusive  and 
delightful,  impalpable  and  yet  precious.  And  yet,  when 
spring  melts  into  summer,  what  compliments  shall  we 
frame  to  the  memory  of  the  poor,  frayed  damsel  who 
amused  our  youth?  How  can  we  forego  the  delights  of 
one  season  long  enough  to  remember  the  beauties  of  an 
other?  Ask  us  not,  when  summer  takes  the  year  to  her 
amorous  bosom,  to  deplore  the  fatality  which  hurries  the 


174  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

sun  to  the  meridian  of  the  season.  After  all,  spring  has 
nothing  but  promises.  What  if  the  bud  should  fail  to  blos 
som?  What  if  the  flower  should  fail  to  fruit?  Ah!  but 
you  say  the  summer  days  are  long  and  languishing.  Only 
to  a  few,  gentlest  of  gentle  readers — only  to  a  few.  Those 
who  are  stricken  with  melancholia  or  dyspepsia  or  ennui 
may,  perhaps,  wish  themselves  well  over  the  weather;  but 
the  lusty  ones  who  enjoy  themselves,  who  take  deep  de 
light  in  whatsoever  bounties  that  nature  (the  bountifulest 
of  all  mothers)  furnishes  them,  welcome  the  approach  of 
summer  and  partake  of  her  moods  and  all  the  phases  of 
her  moods  with  an  enjoyment  beyond  expression.  Let  the 
sun  beat  down  upon  the  housetops  and  the  pavements  never 
so  fiercely.  Let  the  mercury  climb  never  so  high.  They 
have  only  to  betake  themselves  to  the  breezy  and  balm- 
bearing  woods  to  be  rid  of  the  heat  and  the  dust  and  the 
desperation  that  appertain  to  the  city.  A  Partaga  of 
orthodox  brand  and  a  substantially  bound  copy  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne's  quaint  and  curious  essays  are  enough  to 
banish  all  thoughts  of  the  summer  solstice.  If  you  know 
not  Sir  Thomas,  gentle  reader,  we  pray  you  to  hasten  to 
make  his  acquaintance.  He  is  more  original  and  more  cap 
tivating  in  his  quaintness  than  Shakespeare.  The  latter,  it 
is  true,  wrote  for  all  time  and  for  the  millions;  but  Sir 
Thomas,  more  particular  and  more  patient,  wrote  for  all 
time  and  for  the  few.  Cultivate  him  ere  the  summer  over 
takes  you,  otherwise  you  may  have  occasion  to  deplore  the 
languor  of  the  summer  that  is  just  ahead.  It  will  be  a 
season  for  contemplation;  and  all  contemplation  tends  to 
ward  the  time  when,  to  use  the  words  of  Sir  Thomas,  "the 
iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy."  Let  the 
season  have  her  sway.  Let  the  days  be  long  and  languish 
ing.  Whatsoever  is  to  be,  let  it  be ;  but  give  not  your  time 
to  ignoble  perspiration  and  useless  repinings.  Trust  us  for 
this  and  fall  into  our  summer  mood. 

CORNFIELD  PEAS 

It  may  be  that  we  speak  too  late,  but  that  instinct  which 
has  thrilled  epicureans  since  daintiness  of  taste  was  ac 
quired  prompts  us  to  suggest  to  the  gentle  husbandmen  of 


Early  Literary  Efforts  175 

Georgia  that  they  be  unusually  lavish  this  season  in  sowing 
peas — not  that  delicate  variety  known  as  the  lady  pea,  but 
that  lustier  and  hardier  species  known  far  and  wide  as  the 
cornfield  pea.  We  have  no  advice  to  offer  as  to  how  they 
shall  be  planted — in  fact,  we  are  utterly  ignorant  as  to  the 
process.  Moreover,  even  if  we  did  know  ever  so  much 
about  it,  it  would  ill  become  us  as  fair-minded  men  to  usurp 
the  functions  of  our  agricultural  editor,  who  is  no  doubt 
prepared  at  any  moment  to  write  an  essay  upon  the  proper 
mode  of  scattering  these  attractive  seeds  broadcast  over  the 
land.  We  merely  insist  that  they  shall  be  planted,  and 
planted  circumspectly. 

If  we  have  any  weakness  at  all — which  heaven  forbid! — 
it  is  a  love  for  cornfield  peas.  Worldly-wise  proprietors  of 
caravansaries  may  ignore  these  savory  and  delicious  glob 
ules  in  their  bills  of  fare,  and  purveyors  of  dinners  may 
scorn  to  give  them  a  place  in  their  menus,  but  nothing  that 
the  art  of  cookery  has  ever  invented  can  at  all  approach  in 
delicacy  and  deliciousness  a  mess  of  cornfield  peas.  We 
speak  advisedly.  In  addition  to  this,  they  are  suggestive. 
One  whiff  of  the  steam  that  arises  from  the  pot  (they  must 
be  boiled  in  an  old-fashioned  washpot  and  not  in  one  of 
these  newfangled  tin  boilers)  sets  memory  adrift,  and, 
borne  upon  the  pungent  aroma,  she  goes  back  to  the  days 
of  the  old  plantation,  those  wonderful  days  when  pleasure 
waited  upon  anticipation  and  when  peace  held  the  land 
under  the  shadow  of  her  white  wings.  It  was  in  those  days 
that  the  cornfield  pea  won  upon  our  affections,  twining,  as 
it  were,  the  gentle  tendrils  of  its  luxuriant  vine  around  our 
appetites. 

There  are  few  people  nowadays,  unhappily,  who  know 
how  to  prepare  this  savory  vegetable  for  the  table.  The 
recipe  is  simple.  First,  be  certain  that  you  have  peas 
enough.  This  is  quite  important,  because,  when  once  your 
guests  have  sniffed  the  odor  of  the  dish  and  caught  the 
flavor  upon  their  palates,  they  will  rise  up  as  one  man — or 
several  women,  as  the  case  may  be — and  unanimously  call 
for  more.  We  will  take  it  for  granted,  however,  that  you 
have  peas  enough.  The  next  thing  is  to  cook.  For  this  you 
want  a  brisk  fire,  an  iron  pot  (these  tin  boilers  are  an  abomi 
nation),  a  generous  slice  of  bacon  streaked  with  lean  and 


176  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

fat,  three  or  four  pods  of  red  pepper,  and  a  judicious  per 
son  to  superintend  the  whole  business.  They  are  sufficient 
ly  cooked  when  one,  placed  between  the  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  will  melt  away  at  the  bare  suggestion  of  pressure. 
They  are  to  be  seasoned  according  to  taste  and  served 
smoking  hot  with  substantial  pones  of  corn  bread  and  fresh 
buttermilk.  Some  there  are  who  affect  a  preference  for 
the  white  variety  of  this  most  delightful  vegetable;  but, 
for  our  part,  we  will  take  the  speckled  pea.  We  fancy  they 
are  more  substantial  and  pungent,  but  it  may  all  be  fancy. 
We  are  not  going  to  quarrel  over  the  variety.  Give  us  the 
cornfield  peas,  and  we  will  be  satisfied.  Cook  them  as  they 
should  be  cooked,  season  them  as  they  should  be  seasoned, 
and,  our  word  for  it,  no  person  of  refined  taste  will  refuse 
to  nibble  at  them.  If  they  should  refuse,  then,  Oh,  shade  of 
Epicurus,  smite  them  with  thy  pewter  spoon !  Deaden  their 
palates  and  banish  them  to  some  sterile  land  where  cornfield 
peas  neither  bud  nor  blossom  nor  fruit. 

A  COUNTRY  CHURCH 

Somewhere  in  this  broad  land,  gentle  reader,  away  from 
the  dust  and  smoke  of  the  cities,  away  from  the  turbulence 
of  trade  and  traffic,  is  a  little  church  that  is  far  dearer  to 
your  heart  than  the  costly  and  brilliantly  appointed  edifice 
in  which  you  worship  your  Maker,  a  little  church  that 
serves  as  a  memorial  of  your  past.  It  is  useless  to  deny  it. 
We  know  the  church.  It  is  deeply  embowered  in  the  woods, 
a  sanctuary  within  a  sanctuary.  Upon  one  side  a  breezy 
land  leads  to  the  door;  upon  the  other  side  a  white,  sandy 
road  glistens  through  the  trees.  It  is  not  an  imposing  edi 
fice,  this  rude  little  temple.  The  roof  is  gray  with  age,  and 
the  rains  and  storms  have  left  the  somber  impress  of  their 
varying  visits  upon  shingle  and  sill  and  lintel.  The  rough 
window  shutters  hang  ungracefully  upon  their  storm-twisted 
and  rust-eaten  hinges.  The  benches  are  hard  and  uncom 
fortable.  And  here  and  there  some  youth,  more  thoughtless 
than  irreverent,  has  satisfied  an  instinct,  which  moves  much 
wiser  folk,  by  a  preposterously  rude  attempt  to  carve  his 
initials  in  the  yield  pine;  or,  mayhap,  prematurely  smitten 
by  the  subtle  flame  which  sooner  or  later  touches  all  hearts, 
he  has  wrought  in  bungling  fashion  a  monogram  wherein 


Early  Literary  Efforts  177 

appear  the  talisman  signs  of  some  coy  maiden's  name.  The 
pulpit  has  a  cold  and  cheerless  appearance  to  your  metro 
politan  eye.  Its  Puritan  plainness  is  unrelieved  by  mold 
ings  or  hangings  or  cushions  or  tassels.  No  chandelier 
swings  from  the  rafters,  but  in  lieu  thereof  long  lines  of 
sunlight  stream  downward  from  crevices  in  the  roof.  There 
is  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the  walls  are  stained  by  age. 
Sitting  in  your  old  seat  where  you  sat  so  many  years  ago, 
and  realizing  the  rudeness  and  the  discomfort  of  everything 
you  see,  you  fall  to  wondering  at  the  impulse  that  brought 
you  hither.  It  is  dull — it  is  more  than  dull ;  it  is  tiresome. 
It  would  have  been  better- 
But  the  preacher  has  arisen  in  his  place.  He  is  an  old 
man.  He  has  held  you  on  his  knee  in  that  past  which  you 
have  almost  forgotten.  You  know  that  he  is  an  earnest 
man ;  you  know  that  he  is  a  good  man.  You  know  that  he 
serves  the  little  flock  around  him  without  money  and  with 
out  price,  and  you  know  that  his  hands  are  hard  from  toil. 
He  reads  his  text  with  the  same  laborious  care  that  you 
know  so  well,  and  your  trained  ear  invites  you  to  smile  at 
some  of  the  peculiarities  of  accent  which  it  is  quick  to  de 
tect.  You  do  not  accept  the  invitation;  and  when  the 
preacher  closes  the  book  with  the  old  gesture  of  impatience, 
as  though  he  were  anxious  to  free  himself  as  quickly  as 
possible  from  the  barriers  of  print,  you  find  yourself  curious 
to  hear  what  he  has  to  say — curious  rather  than  anxious, 
for  since  the  days  when  you  heard  the  old  man's  voice  your 
belief  has  drifted  into  devious  and  disastrous  ways.  You 
have  followed  the  scientists  through  their  discoveries  and 
deductions  and  fallen  into  the  pessimist  pitfalls  laid  for 
your  reason  by  the  philosophers.  You  have  read  Tyndall 
and  Darwin  and  Huxley,  to  say  nothing  of  the  vast  herd  of 
commentators  who  follow  in  their  train. 

And  yet,  almost  before  the  old  man  has  announced  his 
thesis,  your  fine  theories  of  philosophy  and  your  scholarly 
reasoning  with  respect  to  the  connection  of  mental  and 
physical  phenomena  are  all  forgotten.  You  remember 
nothing  save  the  preacher  and  his  sermon.  A  boyish  trick 
of  the  mind  repeats  itself,  and  you  imagine  he  is  addressing 
himself  particularly  to  you.  How  plain  his  words,  and  yet 
how  forcible !  How  simple  his  illustrations,  and  yet  how 

12 


178  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

vivid!  How  rude  and  rugged  his  style,  and  yet  how  apt 
and  eloquent !  How  clear  his  explanations  !  How  impres 
sive  his  earnestness !  How  deftly  he  shapes  his  logic,  and 
how  vigorously  he  presses  home  his  conclusions !  It  is  al 
most  like  a  new  revelation  to  you.  Here  is  a  man  without 
culture  and  almost  without  education  who  has  forged  logic 
that  has  crushed  your  theories  like  a  trip  hammer — a  grand 
ly  gray  old  optimist  who  in  a  few  unstudied  sentences  has 
swept  away  all  your  well-seasoned  and  oft-tested  props  of 
philosophy.  The  fire  of  utter  belief  that  burns  and  glows 
in  his  soul  has  made  itself  felt  upon  the  cold  fibers  of  the 
doubt  that  fits  you  as  a  garment.  You  cannot  gainsay  the 
fervor  of  his  faith,  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  his  creed,  or 
the  sweet  reality  of  his  religion.  You  know  what  his  reply 
would  be  to  your  methods  of  reasoning,  and  almost  invol 
untarily  you  reply  for  him,  carrying  on  silently  a  curious 
argument:  "Sir,  I  do  not  understand  your  philosophy,  and 
therefore  I  will  not  try  to  combat  it.  I  am  an  old  man  and 
an  ignorant  man.  It  is  not  given  me  to  understand  the 
intellectual  mysteries  of  your  reasoning.  If  it  gives  you 
comfort,  that  is  enough.  My  belief  is  a  part  of  myself.  If 
I  am  wrong,  nevertheless  I  shall  have  enjoyed  much  happi 
ness  in  my  error,  which,  after  all,  is  a  harmless  one.  If  I 
am  right,  with  what  ecstasy  shall  I  turn  and  thank  Death, 
in  whatever  shape  he  may  appear,  for  breaking  down  the 
barriers  of  heaven!"  But  even  in  framing  this  reply  for 
the  preacher  you  smile  to  think  how  consciously  you  have 
avoided  the  hearty  strength  and  emphasis  which  are  his 
characteristics. 

But  the  sermon  is  over  and  the  prayer,  and  then  comes 
the  grandly  sonorous  anthem  of  dismission.  All  sense  of 
discomfort  caused  by  the  prim  plainness  of  the  building  and 
its  surroundings  has  vanished.  Your  lost  youth  rises  and 
stands  before  you.  A  woman's  voice,  strong  and  sweet  and 
clear,  rises  above  the  others  and  lifts  itself  to  the  roof  on 
waves  of  purest  melody.  It  is  as  if  some  one  had  laid  a 
fair  garland  of  the  past  at  your  feet.  You  remember  an 
other  voice  whose  marvelous  sweetness  has  long  been  lost 
to  this  old  building  and  this  little  congregation.  You  re 
member  a  ride  one  Sabbath  morning  years  ago  through  the 
long  lane  that  stretches  smilingly  to  the  west.  You  remem- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  179 

ber  the  timid  words  of  a  fair  young  girl  who  rode  by  your 
side.  You  remember  how  in  your  boyish  fancy  the  elder 
bushes  with  their  milk-white  crowns  of  blossoms  nodded 
to  you  on  either  hand  as  though  they  shared  your  secret  and 
your  triumph.  And  then  the  congregation  sweeps  by  you, 
the  little  church  fades  from  view,  and  you  are  once  more  a 
pessimist  with  unscrupulous  worldly  tendencies. 

Gentle  readers — thrice  gentle  must  you  be,  indeed,  to 
have  followed  us  thus  far — believe  us,  that  which  hath  not 
opportunity  to  happen  is  often  dreamt  of,  and  slumbers  that 
precipitate  the  airy  riots  of  the  mind  have  no  need  to  sue 
the  law  for  pardon. 

GEORGIA  CRACKERS:  TYPES  AND  SHADOWS 

Correspondents  of  Northern  newspapers,  wandering  aim 
lessly  through  the  South  in  search  of  political  material,  for 
get  their  mission  when  they  reach  Atlanta.  The  town  and 
its  people  are  revelations  to  them.  They  seem  to  have  sud 
denly  entered  a  new  world,  and  they  pause  to  reflect  over 
their  discovery  and  to  unravel  the  mystery.  They  find  At 
lanta  a  problem,  and  they  straightway  proceed  to  search 
for  the  solution.  After  a  reasonable  time  they  retire  to  the 
writing  desks,  kindly  furnished  by  the  obliging  hotel  men, 
and  inform  their  expectant  journals  that  in  the  heart  of  the 
South  they  have  found  a  Northern  town.  They  allude  to 
it  as  a  sign  that  business  is  bridging  the  bloody  chasm  and 
make  much  ado  over  the  Northern  energy  and  enterprise 
that  have  sought  the  place  since  the  war  and  redeemed  it 
from  the  dullness  and  death  that  have  stood  guard  over 
nearly  every  other  Southern  city.  This  appears  to  be  such 
a  happy  solution  of  the  problem  that  the  thrift,  enterprise, 
energy,  and  growth  of  Atlanta  are  no  longer  regarded  as 
phenomena  to  be  seriously  and  philosophically  studied.  The 
solution  is  not  only  happy,  in  so  far  as  it  relieves  the  corre 
spondents  of  their  perplexities,  but  it  is  handy  for  our  neigh 
bors  who  do  not  care  to  be  perplexed  about  anything.  And 
so  the  general  impression  is  that  Atlanta  is  the  product  of 
Northern  genius  and  enterprise,  that  her  growth  is  the  result 
of  Northern  energy,  and  that  the  city  is  what  it  is  to-day  by 
reason  of  Yankee  pluck  and  capital.  It  seems  to  be  general- 


i8o  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ly  accepted,  moreover,  that  the  absence  of  narrow  political 
prejudices  from  our  business  and  social  life  is  due  to  the 
same  influences. 

But  these  matters,  so  suggestive  of  reflection,  will  bear 
discussion.  Did  it  ever  occur  even  to  our  own  people  that 
the  growth  and  material  progress  of  Atlanta  since  the  war 
are  something  more  than  astonishing;  that,  wholly  apart 
from  any  independent  or  any  sectional  element  or  local 
comparison,  they  are  among  the  most  striking  phenomena  of 
the  period?  Show  us  the  city,  either  North  or  South,  East 
or  West,  that  has  relatively  kept  pace  with  Atlanta.  Take 
the  city  as  it  stood  in  1865,  destroyed  and  well-nigh  desert 
ed,  and  compare  it  with  the  Atlanta  of  to-day.  Take  the 
city  as  it  stood  in  1870  and  compare  it  with  the  Atlanta  of 
1879.  Not  a  town  or  city  in  the  country,  so  far  as  our 
knowledge  and  observation  extend,  has  kept  pace  with  us. 
Such  progress  as  we  have  made  would  be  accounted  phe 
nomenal  in  any  section  of  the  country.  It  is  not  at  all  sur 
prising,  therefore,  that  Northern  correspondents  should  be 
eager  to  attribute  such  results  to  the  spirit  and  impulses  of 
their  own  civilization,  or  that  our  neighbors,  who  ought  to 
be  better  influenced,  should,  in  order  to  gratify  the  com 
plaining  ghost  of  a  prejudice  that  the  people  of  Georgia 
have  long  since  buried,  point  to  Atlanta  as  a  city  that  owes 
everything  to  Northern  energy  and  capital.  In  point  of 
fact,  to  take  an  instance  at  random,  there  are  ten  Northern 
men  in  Atlanta,  and  the  proportion  holds  good  as  to  the 
capital  invested;  though,  if  we  mistake  not,  Savannah  has 
more  than  once  pointed  her  aristocratically  scornful  finger 
in  this  direction  and  sneered  about  Northern  people. 

The  point  we  desire  to  make,  however,  is  that,  in  spite  of 
all  that  is  said,  Atlanta  remains  a  typical  Georgia  city.  She 
is  this  above  and  beyond  everything.  The  people  who 
founded  her,  the  people  who  have  made  her  what  she  is, 
who  have  contributed  the  basis  of  her  growth,  energy,  and 
prosperity,  are  Georgia  crackers.  They  plowed  heifers. 
They  used  the  hoe,  the  pick,  and  the  spade.  They  wore 
wool  hats  and  walked  barefoot  through  the  keen  frosts  and 
over  the  chestnut  burrs.  They  worked  among  the  moun 
tains  of  North  Georgia  and  toiled  on  the  red  hills  of  Middle 
Georgia.  They  buttered  their  property  with  hope  and  laid 


Early  Literary  Efforts  181 

the  foundation  of  their  fortunes  in  the  rugged  lands  around 
us  and  through  it  all  faced  the  future  with  sturdy  and  un 
tiring  industry.  The  Atlanta  of  to-day  is  the  result  of  the 
brains  and  energy  of  Georgia  crackers,  whose  unique  sim 
plicity  of  character  has  run  steadily  to  thrift  and  prosperity, 
whose  quaint  and  homely  methods  have  caught  a  cosmopoli 
tan  flavor,  whose  inquisitive  shrewdness  has  flowered  into 
an  insatiable  thirst  for  enterprise.  In  other  words,  Major 
Joseph  Jones,  of  Pineville,  settling  in  a  favorable  point  in 
his  native  State,  has  there  surrounded  himself  with  a  city. 
He  has  grown  comfortable,  and  his  children  and  grand 
children  have  become  model  men  and  women.  Thus  it  is 
that  the  business  and  social  elements  of  Atlanta  show  the 
Georgia  cracker  at  his  best  and  highest  development. 

It  is  this  development  which  deceives  the  superficial  ob 
server  into  classing  Atlanta  as  a  city  where  Northern  men 
and  Northern  influences  control  everything;  and  this  view 
is  helped  along  by  the  further  fact  that  the  intensely  typical 
character  of  Atlanta  is  not  only  Georgian,  but  national. 
Did  any  of  our  readers  of  a  thoughtful  turn  ever  take  the 
trouble  to  discover  the  remarkable  points  of  resemblance 
between  the  typical  down-easter  and  the  typical  Georgia 
cracker?  If  not,  it  is  a  matter  which  may  well  engage  their 
serious  attention.  Does  our  friend  Colonel  Thompson,  of 
Savannah,  believe  that  Major  Joseph  Jones,  of  Pineville,  a 
character  study  unsurpassed  in  our  own  literature,  is  popu 
lar  merely  because  a  Georgia  cracker  is  aptly  painted? 
Nonsense!  Not  one  edition  of  the  book  would  have  been 
sold.  The  character  is  not  only  typically  Georgian,  but  typ 
ically  national;  and  for  this  reason  the  book  has  passed 
through  manifold  editions,  and  the  demand  is  not  yet  sup 
plied.  Major  Jones  is  Brother  Jonathan  thinly  disguised 
in  a  suit  of  Georgia  linsey-woolsey.  We  might  compare  the 
Major  with  Sam  Slick;  but  we  prefer  to  stand  him  up 
alongside  of  Hosea  Bigelow,  a  serious  literary  study  of  the 
typical  Yankee.  Examine  them  critically,  and  the  parallel 
is  complete.  Bring  Hosea  Bigelow  to  Georgia,  turn  him 
loose  in  a  pine  thicket,  show  him  a  bunch  of  dogwood  blos 
soms,  make  him  acquainted  with  the  joree  and  the  jay,  give 
him  a  suit  of  jeans  (which  he  would  probably  bring  in  his 
carpetsack),  and  then  you  have  your  Major  Joseph  Jones, 


1 82  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  Pineville,  who  is  "yours  till  deth."  Take  the  Major  to 
New  England,  let  him  tamper  with  the  climate  and  learn 
how  to  save  his  tobacco  instead  of  giving  it  away,  and  there 
is  your  Hosea  Bigelow.  Being  typical,  they  are  national; 
being  national,  they  are  well-nigh  identical.  In  thought, 
feeling,  and  expression  they  are  nearly  the  same;  and  the 
quaint  homeliness,  pathetically  identical  in  both,  is,  in  the 
present  unhappy  state  of  affairs,  absolutely  distressing  to 
those  who  look  above  and  beyond  the  partisan  strife  of  the 
hour.  Both  Thompson  and  Lowell  were  building  better 
than  they  knew — the  one  showing  a  shrewd,  observing  Yan 
kee  who  courted  and  married  Miss  Mary  Stallings  in  Pine 
ville,  and  the  other  introducing  to  us  a  ready-witted,  simple- 
mannered  Georgia  cracker  in  New  England.  The  parallel 
is  apt  to  be  confusing;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion 
we  desire  to  repeat  that  Colonel  Thompson's  Pineville  Yan 
kee,  and  not  Lowell's  Georgia  cracker  from  New  England, 
has  built  Atlanta  and  given  her  progress  wings.  Naturally 
enough,  the  Major  Joseph  Joneses  and  their  relations  have 
opened  their  doors  to  the  Georgia  crackers  from  Maine  and 
Massachusetts ;  and  the  result  has  been  so  fruitful  that  they 
want  more  to  come  with  their  money,  their  pluck,  and  their 
talent.  Nevertheless,  it  will  not  do,  in  the  face  of  facts,  to 
deny  that  the  Pinevillians  and  their  progeny  are  responsible 
for  Atlanta — her  past,  her  present,  and  her  future.  Major 
Jones,  proverbially  genial,  has  become  hospitable  quite  on 
the  European  plan  in  consequence  of  his  commercial  con 
nection  ;  and  as  in  his  business  he  knows  neither  North  nor 
South,  nor  considers  where  the  sectional  line  is  drawn,  he 
doesn't  feel  alarmed  when  his  next-door  neighbors  allude 
to  him  as  a  Northern  man  and  is  only  ashamed  that  the 
allusion  should  be  accompanied  by  a  sneer  which  may  be 
misinterpreted  and  misapplied  by  the  sensitive  Mr.  Bigelow. 
At  the  same  time  the  Major  is  not  too  modest  to  have  it 
known  that  he  is  the  author  of  as  smart  a  town  as  Atlanta. 

THE  PURITAN  AND  THE  CRACKER 

In  endeavoring  last  Sunday  to  do  tardy  justice  to  the 
achievements  of  the  Georgia  cracker  to  be  seen  in  the 
growth,  thrift,  enterprise,  and  prosperity  of  Atlanta  we 


Early  Literary  Efforts  183 

made  casual  allusion  to  the  remarkable  similarity  existing 
between  the  type  of  genuine  Georgia  cracker,  as  represent 
ed  by  Major  Joseph  Jones,  of  Pineville,  and  the  type  of 
down-east  Yankee,  as  represented  by  Hosea  Bigelow.  As 
then  pointed  out,  we  might  have  drawn  the  comparison  be 
tween  Major  Jones  and  Sam  Slick,  or  between  Major  Jones 
and  Jack  Downing.  But  Sam  Slick  is  a  caricature,  and 
Downing  a  mere  lay  figure.  Both  are  inartistic,  and  neither 
is  representative.  But  Major  Jones  and  Hosea  Bigelow  are 
characters  that  will  live  because  they  are  locally  perfect  and 
typically  national.  Each  represents  a  section,  and  each  is 
as  identically  American  as  the  other.  Their  characters  are 
the  same.  Their  identity  is  the  more  striking  because  of 
the  contrast  between  them.  One  is  the  hero  of  an  episode 
purely  pastoral  in  its  surroundings,  and  the  other  is  a  pro 
vincial  politician  of  the  most  intense  pattern.  The  humor 
of  both  is  unconscious,  but  there  is  a  professional  literary 
twang  to  Bigelow  that  somewhat  mars  the  effect  of  the 
character.  We  are  frequently  aware  of  the  fact  that  Hosea 
is  waiting  for  applause  when  he  says  something  unusually 
smart,  and  this  is  a  defect.  Major  Jones,  on  the  other  hand, 
retains  his  quaint  simplicity  to  the  last,  and  his  perfect  se 
riousness  remains  undisturbed.  If  he  had  paused  at  the 
crossroads  grocery  to  talk  politics,  perhaps  he,  like  Hosea, 
would  have  talked  for  effect.  Certainly  his  remarks  would 
have  been  as  shrewd  and  as  homely  and  would  have  been 
pitched  in  precisely  the  same  key,  from  his  point  of  view. 
This  contrast  between  the  pastoral  instincts  of  Major  Jones 
and  the  political  pretensions  of  Hosea  Bigelow,  while  it  does 
not  disturb  their  resemblance  to  each  other,  is,  nevertheless, 
perplexing  in  another  direction.  The  popular  idea  at  the 
North  is  that  every  Southern  man  is  engaged  in  political 
discussion,  while  every  Yankee  is  shrewdly  attending  to  his 
private  affairs.  And  yet  here  is  Mr.  Hosea  Bigelow,  the 
typical  Yankee,  discoursing  of  politics  continually;  while 
Major  Joseph  Jones,  the  typical  Southern  cracker,  is  en 
gaged  in  imparting  confidentially  to  his  friend,  the  country 
editor,  the  installments  of  the  only  pastoral  love  story  in 
American  literature.  How  utterly  these  things  confuse  us ! 
But  this  is  by  no  means  the  most  startling  of  sectional  con 
tradictions,  as  we  shall  presently  see. 


184  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

There  were  two  men  made  famous  by  the  events  of  the 
late  war  whose  names  will  be  familiar  to  the  American  peo 
ple  for  all  time  to  come — so  familiar,  indeed,  that  it  would 
savor  somewhat  of  officiousness  for  even  the  muse  of  his 
tory  to  go  through  the  form  of  presenting  them.  The  won 
derful  possibilities  of  life  and  the  mysterious  opportunities 
of  death  have  already  clothed  them  writh  the  immortality  of 
romance  and  lifted  them  above  and  beyond  the  influence  of 
history.  It  is  not  fame  that  will  preserve  the  names  of 
these  two  men,  but  some  subtler  result  of  the  essence  of 
individuality,  some  occult  quality  of  personal  influence.  We 
allude  to  Stonewall  Jackson  and  Abraham  Lincoln.  His 
tory  will  no  doubt  do  ample  justice  to  the  other  great  names 
of  the  war,  but  history  need  not  pause  to  pay  any  tribute  to 
these  two.  Her  records  are  not  needed  to  preserve  their 
names  or  to  tell  their  story.  And  yet  observe  how  fate 
plays  cross  purposes  with  our  prejudices.  Recall  the  men 
and  the  time.  The  grim  Puritan,  flashing  along  the  front 
of  war,  fighting  the  battles  of  the  South!  The  quaint  Ken 
tucky  cracker  piloting  the  North  to  victory !  How  farcical 
these  small  prejudices  that  flare  up  and  endeavor  to  burn 
where  there  is  nothing  for  their  weak  embers  to  feed  upon ! 
How  unhappy  the  pretense  of  sectionalism  that  would  build 
barriers  where  none  exist ! 

Can  we  doubt  that,  as  the  Puritan  rode  up  and  down  the 
valley,  smiting  here  and  there  through  the  wavering  but 
persistent  lines  of  blue,  the  psalms  that  were  sung  in  old 
Salem  when  Satan  seemed  to  encompass  the  Church  rose 
once  and  again  to  his  lips?  Can  we  doubt  that  the  pensive 
Southern  cracker,  who  confused  people  with  his  humor,  and 
whose  homeliness  was  a  perpetual  surprise  to  men  who 
found  themselves  powerless  to  resist  his  will — can  we  doubt 
that  the  pensive  Southern  cracker  hummed  "Dixie"  to  test  his 
thoughts  ?  It  seems  to  us  that  sectionalism  must  stand  con 
founded  in  the  presence  of  the  memory  of  these  two  men ; 
and  it  is  a  little  singular,  considering  the  fuss  of  the  poli 
ticians,  that  the  character  of  the  Confederate  Puritan  should 
be  tenderly  treated  at  the  North,  and  that  all  the  qualities 
that  gave  Lincoln  his  success  should  be  keenly  appreciated 
in  the  South.  These  things  cannot  be  dwelt  upon  too  fre 
quently  or  too  freely.  The  politico-climatic  line  which  is 


Early  Literary  Efforts  185 

supposed  to  divide  Americans  does  not  exist  except  in  the 
imaginations  of  those  who  have  an  interest  in  the  perpetu 
ation  of  sectional  animosities  and  prejudices  that  grew  and 
should  have  died  with  slavery.  There  is  neither  hatred  nor 
prejudice  between  the  people.  They  fought,  and  they  were 
very  much  in  earnest  about  it.  They  ended  the  war  when 
the  time  came,  and  they  were  very  much  in  earnest  about 
that.  And  the  stalwart  editors  and  politicians  who  are 
engaged  in  abusing  and  misrepresenting  the  South  do  daily 
violence  to  every  instinct  of  patriotism  and  outrage  every 
impulse  of  true  nationalism.  But,  after  all,  what  pitiful 
figures  they  cut!  How  ineffectual  their  fury!  How  boot 
less  their  paper  victories ! 

CHRISTMAS  TIME* 

There  would  be  no  reason,  were  the  times  ever  so  dull, 
why  the  Constitution  should  not  turn  aside  from  the  hurly- 
burly  of  ordinary  newspaper  discussion  to  wish  its  readers 
and  friends  a  merry  Christmas.  With  the  tide  of  prosperity 
turning  in  this  direction,  and  with  all  the  prospects  fair  for 
the  future,  Christmas  promises  to  be  merry  enough,  whether 
or  no  we  make  formal  expression  of  the  wish.  Neverthe 
less,  it  is  a  good  old  custom,  hearty  and  friendly,  and  we 
follow  it,  not  formally,  but  gladly  and  cordially.  To  us 
who  are  old  enough  to  be  filled  with  reverence  and  affection 
for  the  past,  such  greetings  savor  somewhat  of  a  blessing — 
of  such  poor  blessing  as  man  can  bestow  upon  his  brother. 
A  merry  Christmas !  Would  that  ours  could  be  borne  far 
and  wide  upon  the  gentle  winds  to  all  the  homes  in  the  land ! 
Would  that  it  might  hover  over  every  hearthstone  with  all 
the  graciousness  of  a  benediction!  In  the  olden  times,  to 
which  we  all  fondly  turn  as  the  years  lengthen  out  behind 
us,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  little  children  to  pass  from 
house  to  house,  singing  the  Christmas  carols.  Our  children, 
like  ourselves,  unhappily,  have  become  far  too  practical  for 
that,  and,  except  in  the  remote  country  settlements,  their 
sweet  young  voices  are  no  longer  lifted  up  in  song.  Let  us 
hope,  nevertheless,  that  if  the  song  is  not  upon  their  lips  this 
blessed  day  it  is  in  their  happy  hearts. 

1Compare  contribution  to  The  Countryman,  Part  L,  page  58. 


186  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

A  merry  Christmas !  And  yet  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
by  those  whom  fortune  hath  favored  that  in  many  a  home 
only  the  wand  of  charity  can  conjure  up  even  the  ghost  of 
charity.  There  are  homes  in  this  prosperous  land  of  ours, 
homes  here  in  the  comfortable  city  of  Atlanta,  where  Santa 
Claus  never  distributes  his  gifts.  Many  little  ones  awake 
this  morning  to  find  that  the  good  St.  Nicholas  is  not  as 
generous  as  he  has  been  represented  to  be;  and  who  shall 
endeavor  to  explain  to  them  why  it  is  that  he  loves  to  lavish 
his  gifts  upon  the  children  of  the  rich  and  passes  by  the 
children  of  the  poor? 

Once  upon  a  time,  more  than  a  thousand  years  ago, 
a  star  stood  in  the  east  one  Christmas  night;  and  the 
wise  men  who  saw  it  followed  where  it  led  until  they 
came  upon  a  Babe  in  a  manger,  a  little  Child  whose 
mother  was  so  poor  that  she  was  compelled  to  shelter  her 
self  in  a  stable;  and  yet  this  Child  was  the  great  Lord  of 
all,  the  blessed  Saviour.  There  is  still  a  legend  in  the  East 
which  tells  of  how,  when  his  birth  night  comes,  he  descends 
from  the  glory  of  heaven  and  passes  out  over  the  earth, 
from  city  to  city  and  from  house  to  house,  bending  over  the 
little  ones  as  they  sleep  and  giving  them  his  benediction  as 
once  he  gave  it  in  Galilee.  Can  this  beautiful  legend  be  no 
more  than  the  dream  of  some  Oriental  poet?  Perhaps  if 
we  who  are  comfortable  contrive  to  bring  the  Christmas  of 
charity  to  some  desolate  childish  heart  to-day,  perhaps  if 
we  minister  to  the  happiness  of  some  lonely  little  one,  the 
gracious  Presence  whose  movements  are  chronicled  in  the 
Eastern  legend  will  not  forget  to  lean  above  us  with  a  pre 
cious  benediction  when  we  grow  tired  even  of  the  happiness 
of  life. 

Well,  well !  At  least  the  boy  with  the  tin  horn  is  happy — 
happier  than  the  poor  woman  who  carries  a  mackerel  home 
for  dinner  as  the  uttermost  and  most  expensive  luxury  she 
can  afford  to  buy.  And  the  little  children  on  the  streets  are 
happy.  It  is  worth  while  to  pause  upon  the  crossings  and 
watch  their  pretty  antics,  their  delightful  unconscious  ca 
pers.  Here  is  life  and  innocence  and  mirth  for  you.  The 
birds  that  twitter  in  the  springtime  are  not  more  blithe.  The 
breezes  that  whirl  the  dust  and  smoke  away  are  not  more 
abandoned  to  freedom  than  they.  A  few  more  merry  Christ- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  187 

mases,  and  they  will  be  standing  in  our  places,  watching 
the  procession  of  their  own  youngsters  as  it  files  gayly  by, 
blowing  its  tin  horns,  beating  its  small  drums,  waiving  its 
silken  banners,  and  firing  its  toy  cannon.  Perhaps  they  will 
not  be  able  to  extract  quite  as  much  happiness  and  mirth 
from  the  Christmases  to  come  as  they  do  from  the  Christ 
mas  that  is  here.  But  why  not?  Why  should  there  not  be 
old  boys  and  girls  as  well  as  young  boys  and  girls?  It  is 
false  pride,  we  warn  you!  Nothing  else!  Simply  and 
solely  false  pride ! 

For  our  part,  we  are  free  to  confess  that  nothing  but  a 
proper  sense  of  decorum  prevents  us  from  flinging  our  hat 
under  a  dray,  snatching  a  tin  horn  from  the  hands  of  a 
careless  urchin,  and  blowing  such  a  blast  as  was  perhaps 
never  heard  even  by  the  most  venerable  policeman  on  the 
Atlanta  force.  And  it  isn't  our  sense  of  decorum  that  pre 
vents  it,  either.  It  is  other  people's  decorum  we  are  afraid 
of  outraging.  Bless  you!  there  is  no  decorum  in  the  Con 
stitution  editorial  rooms  on  such  a  day  as  this.  The  Politi 
cal  Professor,1  who  is  engineering  the  country  through  the 
dangers  of  sectionalism  and  warning  the  ambitious  Demo 
cratic  financiers  not  to  smash  things  by  tampering  with  the 
greenbacks,  can  caper  as  nimbly  as  the  best  of  them;  and 
we  believe,  if  one  of  our  commencement  orators  were  to 
issue  a  challenge  to  that  effect,  that  the  Editorial  Presence1 
itself  would  skip  down  from  its  antisciatic  chair  and  make  a 
brief  but  fierce  attack  upon  the  joyous  movement  technical 
ly  known  as  the  pigeon  wing.2  These  are  among  the  rea 
sons,  apart  from  a  decent  respect  for  editorial  custom,  why 
the  Constitution  is  so  eager  to  see  a  merry  Christmas  dis 
tributed  equally  among  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor.  It 
would  be  a  pity  if  those  who  have  left  childhood  behind  had 
also  lost  the  faculty  of  becoming  a  child  again  with  the 
children ;  and  if  there  is  ever  a  time  when  manhood  and  old 
age  can  afford  to  renew  their  frolics,  that  time  is  to-day. 

Intent  upon  some  such  mission  as  this,  the  busy  hands 

*Mr.  Harris  referred  to  Mr.  Grady  as  the  Political  Professor  and 
to  Mr.  Evan  P.  Howell  as  the  Editorial  Presence. 

8See  Mr.  Stanton's  statement  as  to  Mr.  Harris's  dancing  negro 
shuffles,  Part  I. 


i88  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

that  are  engaged  in  making  the  Constitution  will  have  a 
brief  season  of  rest  to-day.  If  they  cannot  renew  their 
youth,  at  least  they  can  contribute  somewhat  to  the  general 
fund  of  merriment  afloat,  and  to  do  this  they  must  have 
leisure.  In  order,  therefore,  that  mince  pieces  may  be  prop 
erly  digested  and  the  general  hilarity  be  sustained  by  the 
presence  of  the  Constitution  delegation,  no  paper  will  be 
issued  to-morrow.  We  cannot  better  inaugurate  the  day 
than  by  wishing  one  and  all  a  merry  Christmas. 

LITERARY  CRITICISMS,  ETC. 
AN  ATLANTA  POET1 

It  always  affords  us  peculiar  pleasure  to  chronicle  the 
appearance  of  a  Southerner  among  the  guild  of  authors,  and 
in  the  present  instance  the  pleasure  is  heightened  by  the  fact 
that  the  author  is  a  citizen  of  Atlanta.  Under  the  modest 
and  not  inappropriate  title  of  "Wild  Flowers,"  the  Author's 
Publishing  Co.,  of  New  York,  has  envolumed  the  fugitive 
poetry  of  Mr.  Charles  W.  Hubner,  embalming  it  neatly, 
conveniently,  and  attractively.  Mr.  Hubner  has  long  been 
known  as  an  occasional  contributor  of  verses  to  the  period 
ical  literature  of  the  day;  and  the  popularity  of  these  con 
tributions  has  been  the  means  of  giving  him  considerable 
reputation,  not  only  in  the  South,  but  throughout  the  coun 
try,  albeit,  owing  to  an  oversight  more  singular  than  credi 
ble,  his  name  does  not  appear  among  Davidson's  sketches  of 
"Living  Writers  of  the  South." 

We  have  carefully  examined  Mr.  Hubner's  pretty  little 
volume  of  poems,  and  we  can  most  heartily  commend  it  to 
those  who  delight  to  dally  with  the  muse  in  her  soberer  and 
quieter  moods.  The  modern  school  of  minor  poets,  with 
Algernon  Swinburne  and  Gabriel  Rossetti  at  their  head, 
seems  to  have  had  absolutely  no  influence  whatever  over 
Mr.  Hubner.  His  poetry  is  altogether  reflective.  There  is 
not  even  the  suspicion  of  sensuousness  about  it.  All  is 
chaste,  pure,  and  refined.  He  takes  the  hints  that  nature  so 
lavishly  bestows  upon  her  lovers  and  attunes  them  to  song, 


Charles  W.  Hubner,  now  associated  with  the  Carnegie 
Library,  Atlanta,  continues  to  write  short  poems.  He  recalls  Mr. 
Harris's  sending  him  a  marked  copy  of  this  review. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  189 

and  the  notes  are  none  the  less  sweet  and  tender  because 
they  are  set  to  a  minor  key.  Comparing  Mr.  Hubner  to 
other  Southern  poets  who  have  become  famous  as  builders 
of  verse,  we  may  say  that,  while  his  philosophy  is  less  ab 
sorbing  and  elaborate  than  that  of  Requier,  while  he  lacks 
the  fiery  pungency  of  Randall,  while  he  does  not  possess 
the  power  of  nervous  condensation1  so  apparent  in  the  poetry 
of  Harry  Flash  or  the  wonderful  concentration  and  indus 
try  of  Paul  Hayne,  there  is,  nevertheless,  in  a  majority  of 
the  lyrics  in  the  little  volume  before  us  an  element  of  fresh 
ness  and  simplicity  that  is  characteristic  of  none  of  the 
writers  named.  Mr.  Hubner's  verse  is  strengthened  by  the 
faith  and  earnestness  that  find  expression  therein.  His 
methods  are  legitimate  and  artistic  and  invariably  have  for 
their  object  the  exaltation  of  the  beautiful,  the  good,  and 
the  true. 

We  have  not  the  space  to  review  Mr.  Hubner's  little  vol 
ume  as  it  deserves  to  be  reviewed;  and  we  are,  therefore, 
compelled  to  content  ourselves  with  a  critical  summary 
which  must,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  be  vague  and  un 
satisfactory. 

The  initial  pages  of  the  little  volume  are  taken  up  with  a 
drama  in  three  acts  entitled  "The  Maid  of  San  Domingo/' 
which,  we  suspect,  is  one  of  Mr.  Hubner's  earliest  produc 
tions.  As  a  drama  simply,  it  is  a  failure;  but  as  a  poem  in 
dramatic  form  it  is  vigorous,  energetic,  and  well  sustained. 
It  is  as  a  writer  of  lyrics,  however,  that  Mr.  Hubner  is  at 
his  best.  His  contributions  to  this  form  of  poetry  are  con 
spicuous  for  their  grace,  tenderness,  and  felicity  of  style 
and  versification,  and  in  many  instances  they  have  the  com 
pleteness  of  sonnets  without  their  coldness.  A  fair  speci 
men  of  his  work  in  this  direction  is  his  poem  entitled 

To  a  Mocking  Bird 

"Sweet  bird !  that  from  yon  dancing  spray 
Dost  warble  forth  thy  varied  lay, 
From  early  morn  to  close  of  day 
Melodious  changes  singing. 

'See  Mr.  Turner's  note  to  Harris,  Part  I.,  page  49. 


190  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Sure  thine  must  be  the  magic  art 
That  bids  my  drowsy  fancy  start, 
While  from  the  furrows  of  my  heart 
Hope's  fairy  flowers  are  springing. 

As  changeful  as  the  sounds  thy  throat 
Sets  on  the  charmed  winds  afloat, 
Till  valleys  near  and  hills  remote 

Attest  thy  peerless  powers, 
Have  been  to  me  the  sights  and  scenes, 
The  cloudy  thoughts  and  starry  dreams, 
The  winter  and  the  summer  gleams 

Of  life's  ephemeral  hours. 

But  all  thy  sad  or  merry  lays, 
Sweet  bird !  in  thy  Creator's  praise 
Thou  pourest  from  the  trembling  sprays 

With  love's  delicious  art; 
Thus,  too,  will  I,  whate'er  my  fate — 
In  sorrow  prone  or  joy  elate — 
To  God  my  being  dedicate 

And  give  to  him  my  heart." 

This  is  as  good  in  its  way  as  the  poems  of  Meek,  Wilde, 
and  Flash  upon  the  same  subject.  Mr.  Hubner's  little  vol 
ume  closes  with  a  collection  of  ^Esop's  fables  in  rhyme, 
which,  simply  as  specimens  of  neat  versification,  are  very 
fine.  The  book  is  for  sale  at  Phillips  &  Crews's. 

"LOVE  IN  IDLENESS" 

Of  book-making  there  is  no  end,  and  the  grief  of  it  is 
that  it  seems  to  make  very  little  difference  with  the  public 
whether  the  result  is  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  The  mania 
at  present  is  to  write  novels,  and  it  is  perhaps  just  as  well 
that  it  should  take  this  mild  form.  There  is  nothing  harm 
less  about  a  harmless  novel,  an  axiom  in  criticism  that  might 
be  spun  out  by  saying  that  there  is  nothing  remarkable  in  a 
work  of  fiction  that  is  commonplace.  We  can,  therefore, 
without  fear  of  raising  a  literary  riot,  commend  Miss  Ellen 
W.  Olney's  "Love  in  Idleness,"  which  is  published  by 
Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  and  sent  to  us  through  the  courtesy 


Early  Literary  Efforts  191 

of  Messrs.  J.  and  S.  P.  Richards,  booksellers.  Perhaps  the 
most  remarkable  thing  about  this  volume  (bound  in  paper 
and  sold  at  the  low  price  of  fifty  cents)  is  that  it  first  ap 
peared  in  serial  form  in  Lippincott's  Magazine.  It  is  called 
"A  Summer  Story,"  and  such  undoubtedly  it  is — a  story 
just  fitted  for  the  long  afternoons  when  the  drowsy  gyra 
tions  of  a  small  community  of  house  flies  warn  the  small 
pretenders  to  humanity  that  it  is  time  to  doze.  We  have  not 
the  patience  to  remember  the  plot  of  this  summer  story. 
There  is  a  man  engaged,  in  a  sort  of  commercial  and  busi 
ness  way,  to  a  vague  woman  whom  he  does  not  love  and 
who  takes  advantage  of  this  absence  of  affection  to  become 
desperately  smitten  with  another  vague  woman  who  has 
encountered  the  fancy  of  his  brother.  We  use  the  word 
"encountered"  in  this  connection  advisedly.  There  is  no 
other  word  that  so  aptly  explains  the  process  of  love-making 
as  set  forth  in  the  modern  storybook.  In  the  volume  before 
us  all  ends  happily,  or  unhappily,  as  the  case  may  be.  The 
hero  marries  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  engaged,  ar.d  the 
brother  marries  the  girl  who  loves  the  other  fellow.  Of 
course  nothing  could  be  neater  than  this ;  and  if  the  reader 
isn't  satisfied,  it  is  because  he  hasn't  gone  through  a  regular 
course  of  this  sort  of  stuff.  We  take  it  for  granted,  how 
ever,  that  the  author  is  capable  of  much  better  things.  Her 
style  is  graphic,  picturesque  and  terse,  and  there  seems  to 
be  no  reason  why  she  should  not  at  least  succeed  in  writing 
a  fair  novel. 

NOTES  OF  NEW  MAGAZINES  (ATLANTIC  MONTHLY) 

The  peculiar  interest  with  which  the  editor  of  the  Atlan 
tic  Monthly  manages  to  invest  that  publication  was  never 
more  manifest  than  in  the  February  number.  This  peculiar 
interest  is  simply  the  result  of  the  fact  that  the  Atlantic  has 
somehow  created  an  atmosphere  of  its  own.  We  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  this  is  due  to  what  is  sometimes  sarcastically 
called  the  "Boston  influence,"  but  to  exceptionally  careful 
editing.  So  real  is  this  atmosphere  that  there  is  always  a 
smart  shock  when  a  foreign  amateur,  like  Mr.  Richard 
Grant  White  or  Mr.  Ben:  Perly  Poore,  with  his  indefati 
gable  and  irresistible  colon,  gains  admission  into  the  maga- 


192  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

zine.  Thus,  for  instance,  while  everything  Mr.  White  writes 
is  good,  and  while  our  friend  Poore's  reminiscences  of 
Washington  are  of  abundant  interest,  they  seem  to  be  some 
what  out  of  place  in  the  Atlantic,  and  they  jar  unpleasantly 
upon  the  nerves  of  enthusiastic  readers  of  that  periodical. 
In  the  February  number  Mr.  Henry  James,  Jr.,  continues 
to  dissect  in  a  very  entertaining  manner  the  puppets  which 
he  compels  to  caper  for  our  amusement  in  "The  Portrait  of 
a  Lady/'  In  the  January  installment  of  this  serial  there 
were  dangerous  symptoms  that  Mr.  James  would  allow  his 
puppets  the  latitude  that  human  beings  under  similar  condi 
tions  sometimes  enjoy;  but  he  has  resolutely,  if  not  heroi 
cally,  overcome  this  tendency,  and  now  his  paper  people  are 
definitely  attached  to  the  artistic  string  upon  which  Mr. 
James  has  suspended  them.  In  "Friends  :  A  Duet,"  of  which 
the  fourth  and  fifth  parts  are  here  given,  we  have  a  piece  of 
work  in  direct  contrast  to  the  colorless  but  unmistakable 
art  of  Mr.  James ;  and  it  may  be  regarded  as  the  most  char 
acteristic,  the  most  perfectly  adjusted  of  Miss  Phelp's  es 
says  in  fiction.  .  .  .  Mr.  Richard  Grant  White,  who  seems 
to  be  unmerciful  in  matters  of  this  kind,  is  "In  London 
Again,"  and  he  writes  about  it  so  coolly  and  dispassionately 
that  we  cannot  refrain  from  the  suspicion  that  he  is  endeav 
oring  to  win  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Lathrop's  literary  Bos 
ton.  ...  In  "The  Contributor's  Club"  some  kind  soul 
pays  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Washington  Allston,  the 
South  Carolina  poet  and  painter. 

AS  TO  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

An  interesting  phase  of  the  continual  call  for  what  is 
technically  known  as  "Southern  literature"  is  the  accompa 
nying  demand  for  controversial  fiction.  Whether  this  is 
owing  to  the  lack  of  healthy  criticism  or  to  the  fact  that  we 
have  been  put  upon  the  defensive  so  long  that  anything  in 
relation  to  the  South,  its  condition  or  its  institutions,  past 
or  present,  which  is  suspiciously  critical  or  even  severely 
impartial,  is  construed  into  an  attack,  we  have  not  time  here 
to  consider.  We  suspect,  however,  that  it  is  due  rather  to 
the  social  and  political  isolation  in  which  the  South  sought 
to  preserve  its  peculiar  property  investment.  It  is  natural 


Early  Literary  Efforts  193 

that  such  isolation  should  produce  remarkable  pride  of  opin 
ion  and  a  belief  that  our  civilization  was  perfect.  The  truth 
of  the  matter,  however,  is  that  the  Southern  people  are  hu 
man  beings  and  inherited,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
their  full  share  of  the  virtues  as  well  as  the  faults  of  human 
nature;  and  when  the  Southern  novelist  comes  to  depict  life 
in  the  South  as  it  really  was  and  is,  his  work,  if  he  be  a  gen 
uine  artist,  will  be  too  impartial  to  suit  the  ideas  of  those 
who  have  grown  fat  by  feeding  upon  the  romantic  idea  that 
no  additional  polish  could  be  put  upon  our  perfections. 
The  Southern  Thackeray  of  the  future  will  doubtless  be 
surprised  to  learn  that  if  he  had  put  in  an  appearance  half  a 
century  sooner  he  would  probably  have  been  escorted  be 
yond  the  limits  and  boundaries  of  our  sunny  Southern  clime 
astraddle  of  an  indignant  rail.  Thackeray  satirized  the  so 
ciety  in  which  he  moved  and  held  up  to  ridicule  the  hollow 
hypocrisy  of  the  lives  of  his  neighbors.  He  took  liberties 
with  the  people  of  his  own  blood  and  time  that  would  have 
led  him  hurriedly  in  the  direction  of  bodily  discomfort  if 
he  had  lived  in  the  South.  It  is  probable,  moreover,  that  if 
Addison's  essays  had  appeared  in  a  Southern  spectator 
there  would  have  been  a  most  emphatic  protest  against  their 
slanderous  hints  and  covert  allusions  to  the  foibles  of  the 
Miss  Nancy  Joneses  and  the  Sweet  Williams  of  society;  and 
if  the  scenes  of  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield''  had  been  laid  in 
any  Southern  community,  a  solemn  protest  against  the  genu 
ineness  of  the  rattling  young  villain  that  pursued  Miss  Oli 
via  Primrose  would  have  been  filed  in  the  public  prints. 
Now,  the  spice  of  exaggeration  in  these  comparisons  is  just 
sufficient  to  bring  the  reality  forcibly  to  the  attention  of 
those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  conditions  to  which  we 
allude,  but  further  than  this  it  is  no  exaggeration.  This  is 
the  reason  our  novelists  and  story  writers  are  all  romancers. 
This  is  the  reason  why  St.  Elmo,  who  is  really  a  figure  taken 
out  of  the  "Arabian  Nights"  and  disguised  as  a  Southern 
man,  builds  him  an  impossible  palace  in  a  Georgia  wilder 
ness  and  opens  up  business  by  shooting  a  North  Carolina 
colonel  (or  some  other  obscure  person)  through  the  haslet. 
It  would  probably  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  there 
would  have  been  no  social  safety  for  a  native  writer  who  set 


194  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

himself  down  to  draw  an  impartial  picture  of  Southern  civ 
ilization,  its  lights  and  its  shadows;  but  every  thoughtful 
person  who  has  any  interest  in  Southern  literature  is  per 
fectly  well  aware  of  the  limitations  by  which  our  writers 
have  been  surrounded — limitations,  let  us  hasten  to  add, 
that  fitted  perfectly  and  exactly  the  inclinations  and  ambi 
tions  of  the  writers  themselves. 

The  South  knows  now  that  slavery  was  a  continual  men 
ace  to  our  society,  a  drawback  upon  our  civilization  and  a 
drain  upon  our  resources,  but  it  is  not  too  late  to  say  that 
there  never  was  any  reasonable  discussion  of  the  slavery 
question.  The  position  of  the  South  in  such  a  discussion 
was  impregnable.  The  Southern  people  were  not  responsi 
ble  for  the  existence  of  slavery  nor  for  its  continuance. 
They  purchased  it  from  the  thrifty  philanthropists  of  New 
England  and  had  no  means  of  getting  rid  of  it.  To  free 
them  there  was  an  impossibility;  to  send  them  back  to  Af 
rica  was  inhuman.  There  were  hundreds  of  Abolitionists 
among  the  slave  owners,  but  they  could  do  nothing.  It  was 
never  discovered,  until  after  the  war,  that  Mrs.  Stowe's 
attack  upon  slavery  was  a  practical  and  genuine  defense  of 
the  Southern  slave  owner.  She  painted  him  as  merciful, 
almost  imprudently  lax  in  his  discipline.  The  monsters  in 
her  book  are  of  Northern  birth,  a  fact  that  is  not  very  flat 
tering  to  our  versatility. 

We  have  before  us  as  we  write  a  remarkable  example  of 
that  curious  self-consciousness  which  is  responsible  for  the 
literary  limitations  of  our  writers  and  which  in  its  most 
strenuous  shape  is  not  less  pathetic  than  amusing.  Some 
time  ago  Mr.  George  W.  Cable,  a  Southern  man,  wrote  a 
novel  entitled  "The  Grandissimes,"  purporting  to  be  a  pic 
ture  of  Creole  life  in  Louisiana  at  about  the  period  of  the 
cession  of  that  State  to  the  United  States.  In  some  re 
spects  this  novel  is  a  unique  work  of  art ;  in  others  it  is  not. 
For  one  thing,  it  is  altogether  too  populous  not  to  be  confus 
ing;  for  if  the  inhabitants  of  the  book  were  added  to  the 
census,  Louisiana  would  be  entitled  to  another  representa 
tive  in  Congress.  The  work  is  avowedly  a  piece  of  fiction, 
but  this  has  not  prevented  the  Creoles  of  the  present  day 
from  protesting  against  it.  Some  one  has  sent  us,  indeed,  a 
violently  trashy  little  pamphlet  embodying  an  anonymous 


Early  Literary  Efforts  195 

attack  upon  Mr.  Cable  for  presuming  to  put  the  Creoles  in 
a  book.  It  is  very  clear  that  the  Creoles  of  New  Orleans 
look  upon  the  novel  as  a  personal  affront.  Mr.  Cable's  book 
may  or  may  not  be  a  genuine  picture  of  Creole  life.  We 
know  nothing  as  to  that.  But,  consciously  or  unconscious 
ly,  he  has  photographed  the  South  as  it  existed  a  little  while 
ago.  And  if  the  Northern  critics  knew  as  much  about  us  as 
they  pretend,  this  feature  of  a  remarkable  book  would  have 
been  dwelt  upon  with  more  or  less  emphasis.1 

But  we  have  wandered  away  from  the  point  we  intended 
to  make,  which  is  this,  that  if  the  South  is  ever  to  make  any 
permanent  or  important  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the 
world,  we  must  get  over  our  self-consciousness  and  so  con 
trol  our  sensitiveness  as  to  be  able  to  regard  with  indiffer 
ence — nay,  with  complacence — the  impulse  of  criticism 
which  prompts  and  spurs  every  literary  man  and  woman 
whose  work  is  genuine.  We  must  not  forget  that  real  lit 
erary  art  is  absolutely  impartial  and  invariably  just.  None 
other  can  endure. 

"THE  GEORGIANS"2 

Some  young  person  with  well-defined  purpose  wrote  to 
the  Constitution  the  other  day  concerning  the  status  and 
prospects  of  "Southern"  literature,  so  called.  We  have  no 
time  just  now  to  fish  the  matter  from  the  depths  of  the 
wastebasket;  but  the  core  of  the  communication,  as  we  re 
member,  was  the  difficulty  which  Southern  writers  experi 
ence  in  making  their  way  at  the  North.  Following  hard 
upon  the  announcement  authorized  by  the  editor  of  Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly  that  the  July  number  of  that  magazine  would 
contain  articles  from  seven  Southerners,  and  that,  in  addi 
tion,  the  editor  had  on  hand  enough  acceptable  matter  from 
Southern  writers  to  fill  several  issues  of  the  Monthly,  it  was 
thought  best  to  give  the  communication  over  to  oblivion,  al 
beit  it  would  have  served  admirably  as  an  excuse  for  some 
exceedingly  suggestive  comments.  The  idea  that  there  is  a 

Compare  Cable's  attitude  toward  Harris,  Introduction,  page  6; 
also  compare  another  reference  to  Cable  in  "The  Georgians." 
2By  Mrs.  Hammond,  of  Atlanta. 


196  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

disposition  either  in  Boston  or  in  New  York  to  ignore  ac 
ceptable  literary  matter  because  it  happens  to  be  from  the 
pen  of  a  Southern  writer  is  absurd.  The  great  difficulty 
has  been  and  is  for  Southern  writers  to  rid  themselves  of 
certain  tendencies  to  romanticism  which  are  not  only  pre 
posterous  in  themselves,  but  deadly  in  their  effects  upon 
literary  art.  When  Southern  writers  divest  themselves 
thoroughly  of  every  trace  of  sectionalism  and  view  all  things 
from  the  artistic  standpoint,  they  will  find  no  difficulty  in 
making  their  way.  In  fact,  they  will  find  less  difficulty  than 
the  writers  of  any  other  section.  Circumstances  have  in 
vested  everything  in  the  literature  and  life  of  the  South 
with  profound  interest,  and  the  writer  who  shall  truthfully 
present  and  reproduce  the  characters  and  conditions  by 
which  he  has  been  surrounded,  however  narrow  and  pro 
vincial  they  may  be,  is  sure  of  fame.  This  is  true  of  any 
and  all  sections,  but  the  circumstances  to  which  we  have 
alluded  have  made  it  particularly  true  of  the  South. 

We  have  before  us  a  volume  (Round  Robin  Series:  "The 
Georgians";  Boston,  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  1881 ;  pages, 
322;  price,  $i)  which  is  in  some  sort  an  exemplification  of 
what  we  have  said.  It  is  the  first  book  of  a  Georgia  author, 
and  it  is  printed  in  Boston !  It  is  published  anonymously, 
in  accordance  with  the  plan  of  the  series  of  which  it  is  a 
part;  but  there  are  evidences  in  the  volume  itself  which, 
while  they  will  not  be  detected  by  the  uncritical  reader,  are 
sufficient  to  show  that  the  book  is  the  first  studied  effort  of 
a  young  writer.  These  evidences,  let  us  hasten  to  say,  are 
not  in  the  shape  of  blemishes,  but  consist  of  a  certain 
hasty  treatment  which  in  one  or  two  instances,  and  only  one 
or  two,  gives  excessive  formality  to  ordinary  conversation 
between  ordinary  people. 

As  a  whole,  "The  Georgians"  is  an  admirable  piece  of 
literary  work,  and  as  such  we  commend  it  to  those  who  are 
ambitious  to  write  a  novel  of  Southern  life  and  society.  It 
is  at  once  entertaining  and  instructive,  restful  to  the  mind 
and  refreshing  to  the  moral  sense,  and  its  twofold  purpose 
is  carried  out  within  such  limitations  and  under  such  cir 
cumstances  as  to  bring  into  unusual  prominence  the  author's 
exquisite  sense  of  artistic  proportion.  It  is  rare — and  we 
say  it  in  sorrow — that  a  story  of  Southern  life  is  worth  ana- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  197 

lyzing.  As  a  general  rule,  such  stories  are  either  grossly 
exaggerated  in  style  and  statement,  or  they  are  silly  and 
insipid.  But  here  is  a  story  which  challenges  attention  and 
piques  curiosity.  It  is  not  a  great  novel.  It  does  not  at 
tempt  to  deal  with  the  profound  problems  of  human  nature. 
It  is  absolutely  unpretentious.  But  within  the  limitations 
fixed  by  the  author  it  is  the  most  satisfactory  piece  of  liter 
ary  work  that  has  been  done  in  the  South  since  the  war. 
We  do  not  even  except  "The  Grandissimes,"  although  Mr, 
Cable's  work  betrays  genius,  while  "The  Georgians"  merely 
drops  a  hint  now  and  then  that  possibly  its  author  is  a  gen 
ius.  Mr.  Cable's  story  is  powerful  and  picturesque,  but  it 
is  unsatisfactory  as  a  work  of  art.  It  has  too  many  inhabit 
ants.  As  an  attempt  to  use  the  novel  as  an  allegorical 
painting  it  is  unique,  but  its  success  here  is  inadequate.  In 
"The  Grandissimes"  we  have  projected  upon  a  tropical  Cre 
ole  background  a  series  of  pictures  of  Southern  society  as 
it  existed  up  to  the  war  and  for  a  time  thereafter.  We  have 
the  cession  of  Louisiana  and  the  disturbance  it  created 
standing  for  the  Reconstruction.  The  result  cannot  but  be 
confusing.  We  had  almost  said  "distressing."  It  is  not  the 
pictures  of  society  to  which  we  object,  but  to  the  confusing 
timidity  which  suggests  a  totally  foreign  background.  To 
take  away  the  Creole  surroundings  may  destroy  in  some 
degree  the  picturesque  features  of  the  story,  but  it  would 
add  greatly  to  its  veracity  as  a  study  of  Southern  society. 
Genius,  however,  will  have  its  own  way,  and  wre  allude  to 
these  things  here  to  show  wherein  "The  Georgians"  is  more 
satisfactory  as  a  pure  literary  work.1 

"The  Georgians,"  as  its  title  indicates,  deals  with  the  his 
tory  of  a  Georgia  family,  the  scene  being  laid  in  and  around 
Atlanta.  Even  the  Russian  countess,  Madame  Felicia  Or- 
lanoff,  who  is  the  heroine  of  the  story,  is  a  Georgian,  and 
the  fact  that  she  is  a  countess  at  all  rather  detracts  from 
the  serious  interest  of  the  volume.  It  is  no  more  necessary 
to  the  effect  of  the  story  that  she  should  be  a  countess  than 
that  Marcus  Laurens,  the  hero,  should  be  an  Italian  noble 
man  instead  of  a  Georgia  farmer.  The  fact  that  the  study 

Compare  Cable's  attitude  toward  Harris,  Introduction,  page  6; 
also  compare  another  reference  to  Cable,  page  196. 


198  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  Georgia  life  and  character  is  to  all  appearance  strictly 
incidental  and  subordinate  to  the  narrative  adds  zest  and  em 
phasis  to  its  almost  literal  truthfulness.  Within  certain  limi 
tations — and  very  unnecessary  ones,  it  seems  to  us — there  is 
no  more  faithful  picture  of  certain  phases  of  Southern  so 
ciety  than  are  given  in  this  book.  There  are  hints  here  and 
there — elusive  and  vague  when  we  come  to  examine  them 
closely — that  the  impulses  as  well  as  the  intentions  of  the 
author  have  been  studiously  restrained,  and  these  give  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  piquancy  to  the  people  [?]  that  in  another 
volume  the  social  characterization,  which  is  subordinate  in 
"The  Georgians,"  will  be  pursued  with  a  firmer  hand  and 
freer  purpose. 

We  judge  that  the  author  of  "The  Georgians"  is  a  wom 
an.  Indeed,  it  is  simply  impossible  that  the  remarkable 
analysis  of  Madame  Orlanoff's  character  and  emotions 
should  have  been  written  by  a  man.  This  analysis  is  keen 
and  vivid  and  subtle  enough  to  rank  as  a  psychological 
study.  The  author  of  "The  Georgians"  has  that  facility  of 
expression  which  is  as  valuable  to  a  novelist  as  imagination, 
and  here  and  there  throughout  the  volume  are  evidences  of 
a  humor  which  is  at  once  sly  and  discreet.  There  are  no 
elaborate  efforts  to  render  the  cracker  and  negro  dialects; 
but  wherever  the  attempt  is  made,  it  is  successful^  "The 
Georgians"  is  a  genuine  picture  of  certain  phases  of  life  and 
society  in  the  South.  The  author  seems  to  possess  lively 
Southern  sympathies,  but  these  are  mellowed  and  chastened 
by  tenderly  severe  Puritan  touches  here  and  there  that  are 
altogether  delightful. 

In  addition,  and  in  conclusion,  "The  Georgians"  is  a  pure 
and  wholesome  book  from  beginning  to  end. 

NARRATIVES   AND  SHORT  STORIES 

A  COUNTRY  NEWSPAPER* 

In  the  history  of  American  journalism,  as  strange  as  the 
statement  may  seem,  there  has  been  but  one  country  news 
paper.  There  is  a  large  class  of  journals  technically  known 

Compare  discussion  of  The  Countryman  in  Part  I.,  pages  48ff. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  199 

as  country  papers;  but  most  of  them  are  published  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  a  post  office,  and  all  of  them,  by  force  of 
necessity,  are  issued  in  some  village  or  town.  So  far  as  we 
know,  there  has  been  but  one  exception  to  this,  and  this 
exception  was  unique  in  its  way,  not  only  in  the  place  of  its 
publication,  but  in  the  style  of  its  editorials  and  the  method 
of  its  arrangement.  It  was  published  in  the  State  of  Geor 
gia,  county  of  Putnam,  nine  miles  from  any  post  office  or 
town,  and  its  success  was  wholly  dependent  upon  the  indi 
viduality  of  its  editor.  It  originated  in  a  desire  on  the  part 
of  a  Southern  gentleman  of  ample  means  and  large  culture 
to  address  the  people  on  matters  of  public  concern.  The 
name  of  this  unique  little  publication  was  The  Countryman, 
and  it  was  published  upon  the  plantation  of  Mr.  J.  A.  Tur 
ner,  nine  miles  from  Eatonton.  In  the  prospectus  printed 
in  the  first  number,  which  was  issued  in  the  spring  of  1862, 
it  was  announced  that  The  Countryman  would  be  modeled 
after  Addison's  little  paper,  The  Spectator,  and  Johnson's 
little  paper,  The  Bee,  and  for  a  while  the  promises  of  the 
prospectus  were  fulfilled.  But  The  Countryman  gradually 
grew  even  beyond  the  anticipations  of  its  editor.  It  became 
immensely  popular,  was  enlarged,  and,  suiting  himself  to 
the  demands  of  a  larger  and  less  cultivated  audience,  the 
style  of  the  editor  became  less  intensely  literary,  until  finally 
he  came  to  write  almost  entirely  in  what  Mr.  James  R.  Ran 
dall,  the  poet,  who  is  quite  a  dandy  among  literateurs,  called 
"the  choice  Georgia  dialect."  The  style,  therefore,  albeit 
the  editor  was  a  scholar  in  the  truest  and  widest  sense  of 
that  word  and  possessed  to  a  most  remarkable  degree  the 
gift  of  expression,  became  as  unique  as  the  publication 
itself.  Word  fanciers  would  have  called  it  hopelessly  com 
monplace.  Fine  writing  was  altogether  ignored,  and  collo 
quialisms  took  the  place  of  the  diction  of  the  schools.  This 
peculiarity  was  intensified  by  the  announcement  of  the  edi 
tor  that,  following  the  example  of  William  Cobbett,  he 
would  use  the  pronoun  "I"  instead  of  the  royal  pronoun 
"we,"  and  thenceforth  the  essays  were  as  remarkable  for 
their  personality  as  for  their  originality. 

But  the  country  paper  thrived.  The  echoes  of  the  clash 
and  clang  of  war  never  reached  the  quiet  printing  office 
buried  in  the  deep  woods  of  a  Southern  plantation.  The 


200  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

brown  squirrels  rushed  over  the  roof  with  the  untameable 
and  yet  uncertain  velocity  that  seems  natural  to  the  wind 
and  to  wild  animals.  The  birds  twittered  in  the  trees.  The 
melodious  voice  of  the  negro  rose  from  the  green  depths  of 
the  long  and  level  cornfields.  The  peace  of  an  eternal  Sab 
bath  brooded  perpetually  over  the  pastoral  scene,  and  it  was 
only  when  one  more  beloved  than  the  rest  had  starved  in 
the  cold  and  grim  fastnesses  of  Laurel  Hill  or  breasted  the 
sultry  thunder  of  Gettysburg  that  the  people  of  that  quiet 
plantation  remembered  the  war  that  was  raging  upon  the 
outside.  The  bright-eyed  country  girls  came  to  view  the 
mysterious  workings  of  the  clumsy  hand  press;  and  their 
mild  wonder  seemed  to  protest  against  the  possibility  that  a 
brawny-armed  printer,  humbly  aided  by  a  blushing  roller 
boy,  could  accomplish  such  a  remarkable  result  as  the  manu 
facture  of  a  newspaper.  It  was  a  golden  time.  The  com 
positors,  imported  from  sections  where  the  rules  of  society 
had  been  crystallized  into  canons,  gradually  made  advances 
to  the  timorous  maidens  who  came  to  investigate  the  mys 
teries  of  the  black  art,  and  more  than  one  pure  and  sweet 
little  love  idyl  was  enacted  in  that  section  before  the  sum 
mer's  victory  had  faded  into  the  autumn  of  defeat.  The 
sweetness  of  peace  dwelt  in  the  air.  Somewhere  in  the  dim 
distance  war  was  trailing  his  black  mantle  across  the  dusty, 
sun-smitten  regions  of  the  South.  But  in  the  neighborhood 
of  this  country  newspaper  its  dismal  rustle  was  not  heard; 
and  if  perchance  a  warrior  was  slain  in  the  Virginia  valley, 
he  was  mourned  as  one  who  had  fought  and  fell  in  a  for 
eign  land.  The  tall  pines  nodded  to  the  passing  breeze  and 
dispensed  the  balm  of  their  resinous  odors  to  the  lovers  be 
low.  The  flowers  bloomed,  the  sun  shone,  and  the  birds 
sang.  Of  the  compositors  who  aided  in  giving  to  the  public 
this  original  little  newspaper,  two  (Heaven  rest  their  souls  !) 
are  dead.  One,  who  by  his  rollicking  mood  gave  zest  to 
many  a  long  evening  and  whose  congeniality  endeared  him 
to  his  companions,  is  now  the  proprietor  of  the  most  widely 
circulated  religious  newspaper  in  Georgia.1  Another  is  edit 
ing  a  weekly  newspaper  in  West  Virginia.  Another  is  at 

1Mr.  J.  P.  Harrison.    See  references  in  Part  I.  and  account  of  life 
in  Forsyth. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  20 r 

the  head  of  a  paper  in  North  Georgia.  Another  is  a  suc 
cessful  shoemaker,  and  still  another  has  drifted  into  agri 
culture.  While,  last  and  least,  he  who  remembers  all  these 
things  perhaps  more  keenly  than  the  rest  sits  at  the  feet  of  a 
fat  professor  of  politics  and  contributes  to  the  trash  that 
constitutes  the  newspaper  literature  of  the  day. 

SEWARD'S  GEORGIA  SWEETHEART* 

In  an  article  which  appeared  in  these  columns  some  days 
ago  reference  was  made  to  "A  Country  Newspaper,"  an 
ideal  journal  of  the  pastoral  regions  that  flourished  in  Put 
nam  County  during  the  war.  This  country  newspaper  was 
edited  and  printed  almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  ruins 
of  the  rude  academy  which  some  years  before  had  resound 
ed  to  the  voice  and  ferrule  of  William  H.  Seward,  a  politi 
cian  who  afterwards  played  such  an  important  part  in  shap 
ing  the  affairs  of  the  country  at  a  most  critical  period  of  its 
history. 

Seward,  it  appears,  becoming  vexed,  as  young  men  will, 
at  the  too  practical  precepts  of  a  Puritanical  father,  cut 
loose  from  the  ties  of  home  and  came  to  the  South  in  the 
somewhat  frayed  role  of  the  prodigal  son.  Fresh  from  col 
lege  and  familiar  with  the  books,  he  betook  himself  to  teach 
ing;  and,  answering  an  advertisement  of  the  trustees  of 
Union  Academy,  he  became  the  principal  thereof  and  for  a 
period  essayed  to  enlighten  and  mold  the  plastic  minds  of 
those  whom  he  afterwards  alluded  to  as  Southern  barba 
rians.  He  was  hospitably  treated,  however,  and,  as  the  tra 
dition  goes,  became  warmly  attached  to  many  of  those  whom 
he  regarded  as  no  less  his  benefactors  than  his  patrons.  The 
parental  wrath  which  had  driven  him  from  his  home  was 
soothed  by  that  great  healer  of  large  and  small  quarrels, 
Time,  and  ere  he  had  brandished  the  rod  many  months 
he  received  an  invitation  from  his  father  to  return  to  his  old 
home  and  receive  the  parental  blessing.  A  teacher  named 
Woodruff  was  sent  out  to  take  his  place ;  and  young  Seward 
went  back  to  his  father's  house,  became  a  politician,  was 
elected  Governor  of  New  York,  and  finally  became  Lin- 
Compare  "Froemial  to  Putnam,"  page  221. 


2O2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

coin's  Secretary  of  State,  with  a  little  bell  at  his  hand  that 
became  the  terror  of  the  "nation."  Some  years  before  the 
war  he  revisited  the  scene  of  his  youthful  experience  as  a 
pedagogue  and  renewed  his  old  acquaintances  among  his 
patrons  and  pupils. 

Years  and  years  afterwards  a  young  man,  one  of  the  com 
positors  upon  The  Countryman,  wandering  through  an  old 
country  mansion  in  the  neighborhood,  came  upon  an  old  and 
much-worn  duodecimo  copy  of  Marryat's  "Jacob  Faithful." 
Turning  over  its  yellow  leaves  curiously  and  carelessly,  he 
came  upon  a  lock  of  yellow  hair,  that  in  another  age  and  in 
a  stronger  light  might  have  been  called  red  or  auburn,  en 
closed  in  a  yellow  letter.  This  letter  was  written  by  young 
Seward  to  a  country  lass  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  albeit  its 
style  took  color  from  the  somewhat  coldly  polite  forms  of 
that  day,  it  breathed  unmistakably  of  the  true  love  that 
comes  to  a  man,  whether  he  be  peasant  or  prince,  but  once 
in  a  lifetime.  The  diplomacy  that  the  young  lawyer  and 
politician  saw  fit  to  use  in  addressing  an  unsophisticated 
country  lass  whom  he  was  nevermore  destined  to  meet 
could  not  hide  the  fervency  of  his  feelings,  and  it  seems 
more  than  probable  that  the  Putnam  County  maiden  re 
ceived  the  first,  last,  and  only  real  love  letter  ever  written 
by  William  H.  Seward.  There  is  reason,  moreover,  for  be 
lieving  that  in  all  the  turmoil  of  politics  in  which  he  after 
wards  engaged  he  never  forgot  the  sweetheart  of  his  youth, 
who  lived  and  died  in  the  pastoral  obscurity  of  Putnam. 
She  never  married;  but  for  many  and  many  a  summer, 
stirred  by  the  sultry  winds  or  shaken  loose  by  the  wander 
ing  bees,  the  apple  blossoms  have  drifted  down  upon  her 
resting  place,  which  lies  hid  by  the  tall  and  tangled  grasses 
of  the  old  orchard.  Her  name  is  a  memory,  her  life  a 
dream,  her  love  a  myth ;  but  neither  memory  nor  myth  can 
disturb  her  slumbers  now. 

A  GUZZLED  GUEST 
How  TOOMBS  PROTECTED  A  MILD  YOUNG  MAN  FROM  THE  Ku-Kiux 

Smalley's  Adventures  in  a  Bad  Georgia  Hamlet — Marching  to  the 
Music  of  the  Town  Boys  and  Trembling  upon  the  Brink  of  Un 
certainty — A  Vigil  with  the  Doughfaces  and  an  Early  Ride  Out  of 
the  Country. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  203 

Once  upon  a  time  a  correspondent  of  the  New  York 
Tribune,  whose  surname  was  Smalley,  journeyed  South 
upon  an  "interviewing"  mission.  He  had  been  instructed — 
or  at  least  let  us  suppose  that  he  had  been  instructed — to 
visit  various  prominent  Southern  leaders  at  their  homes, 
converse  with  them,  and  embody  their  ideas  in  a  series  of 
sensational  articles  purporting  to  be  "interviews."  The 
correspondent  selected  to  perform  this  delicate  task  was 
named  Smalley ;  and,  for  all  we  know  to  the  contrary,  he  is 
named  Smalley  to  this  day.  His  career  through  the  South 
was  a  great  success  until  he  reached  Washington,  in  Wilkes 
County,  and  there  he  made  a  failure.  He  pounced  upon 
Toombs;  and  Toombs,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  sat  down 
upon  him  with  considerable  vehemence.  Smalley,  I  am 
told,  is  a  right  clever  young  man.  He  is  from  Philadelphia 
and  has  probably  associated  a  good  deal  with  Chevalier  For 
ney  and  other  journalistic  bucks  of  that  saintly  city.  As  to 
his  personal  appearance,  I  know  nothing;  but,  judging  from 
the  descriptions  I  have  had  of  him,  he  parts  his  hair  in  the 
middle,  wears  side  whiskers,  chews  cinnamon,  and  has  alto 
gether  the  appearance  of  the  haughty  man  of  genius  who 
plays  the  base  violin  in  a  negro  minstrel  troupe. 

Washington,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  a  bad  town.  It  is 
the  dwelling  place  of  such  unscrupulous  patriots  as  Dr. 
Henry  F.  Andrews,  of  the  Gazette,  who  carries  his  medicine 
chest  around  with  him  to  press  conventions,  and  is  the  abode 
of  such  fierce  citizens  as  Col.  Fred  J.  Ludette,  who  writes, 
compiles,  and  arranges  pretty  much  all  the  local  matter 
for  the  Doctor's  paper.  Washington,  as  I  have  said,  is 
a  bad  town.  It  was  a  bad  town  before  the  war  and  still 
prides  itself  upon  the  distinctive  features  by  which  it  has 
been  made  famous.  It  was  to  this  bad  town  on  one  fine 
morning  not  many  years  ago  that  Mr.  Smalley  came.  At 
that  time  the  boys  were  rather  wild,  and  as  the  Tribune 
correspondent  marched  up  the  street  he  became  suddenly 
aware  that  he  was  involuntarily  keeping  time  to  the  music 
of  a  well-organized  band  of  whistlers.  It  was  embarrassing, 
to  be  sure ;  but  what  could  he  do?  When  a  parcel  of  young 
men  conclude  to  whistle  a  stranger  down  the  wind,  he  has 
no  possible  remedy,  albeit  it  is  exceedingly  aggravating  to  be 


204  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

compelled  to  keep  time  to  music  which  is  neither  of  your 
making  nor  choosing.  In  a  small  and  bad  town  like  Wash 
ington  you  cannot  help  yourself.  You  are  compelled  either 
to  march  to  the  tune  the  young  men  provide  for  you  or  sit 
bodily  down  upon  the  sidewalk.  The  first  is  embarrassing 
and  the  latter  exceedingly  undignified.  Smalley  chose  to 
be  embarrassed,  and  the  consequence  was  that  he  paced  up 
the  sandy  street  to  the  hotel  in  a  manner  quite  as  uncon 
sciously  humorous  as  the  party  who  affected  to  play  an  im 
aginary  trombone  at  the  funeral  of  "Tennessee's  Partner." 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  Smalley  reached  the  tavern 
in  safety,  wiped  the  dust  and  perspiration  from  his  chin, 
ate  a  hearty  dinner  of  corn  bread  and  buttermilk,  and  then 
sallied  forth  to  find  General  Toombs. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  addressing  the  expressive 
jowl  which  stood  forth  as  the  most  important  and  prominent 
feature  of  the  landlord's  physiognomy,  "can  you  tell  me 
where  I  can  find  General  Toombs?" 

"Why,  Lor*  bless  you !  Ef  Bob's  in  town,  I  kin  tell. 
He  'lowed  the  other  day  that  he  wuz  gwine  off  ter  'ten'  cote ; 
but  ef  he's  'roun',  I  kin  p'int  him  out  to  you  in  two  shakes 
of  a  sheep's  tail." 

With  this  the  landlord  with  a  hearty  jowl  stepped  briskly 
to  the  door  and,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  soon  singled 
out  in  one  of  the  various  groups  a  portly  old  gentleman 
crowned  with  a  mass  of  silvery  gray  hair. 

"Bob!  O  Bob!  Drap  over;  here's  a  man  wants  to  see 
you." 

General  Toombs,  with  a  half-chewed  cigar  in  his  mouth 
and  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  expressive  face,  rose  from  the 
discussion  of  some  political  question  and  approached. 

"Is  this  Gen.  Robert  Toombs?"  asked  Smalley. 

"That  is  my  name/'  answered  the  General. 

"My  name  is  Smalley,"  said  the  stranger.  "Probably  you 
have  heard  of  me." 

"Probably,"  said  the  General.  "I  hear  of  a  good  many 
people.  I  am  always  hearing  of  people.  I  hear  of  every 
body,  and  a  good  many  hear  of  me." 

"I  am  the  correspondent  of  the  Tribune,"  explained 
Smalley  with  a  little  flourish,  "and  I  have  come  here  to  in 
vestigate  these  Ku-Klux  matters." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  205 

"Ah!'*  replied  the  General.  "And  do  you  propose  to  re 
main  with  us  long?  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  more  of  you.  As 
to  these  Ku-Kluxes,  now" — smiling  one  of  his  sweetest 
smiles — "how  do  you  propose  to  catch  them?  and  what  are 
you  going  to  do  with  them  when  they  are  captured?  I'm  a 
little  interested  in  the  result.  Quite  a  number  of  my  friends 
are  mixed  up  in  that  business." 

"So,  then,  there  is  really  such  an  organization?"  queried 
Smalley  with  considerable  animation. 

"Why,  my  dear  sir,"  said  General  Toombs,  lowering  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  tone  and  glancing  around  cautiously, 
"if  you  were  to  compel  me  to  turn  State's  evidence,  there 
are  fifteen  men  in  sight  at  this  moment  who  would  be  your 
prisoners  in  less  than  an  hour." 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  General" — 

"Yes,  sir.  This  is  unquestionably  the  warmest  climate  on 
the  globe  for  niggers  and  Northern  men.  Why,  even  the 
fleas  wear  pistols  around  their  waists,  and  the  mosquitoes 
are  malicious  enough  to  hunt  for  blood  with  daggers." 

Smalley  smiled  and  complacently  stroked  his  mutton  chop 
whiskers.  General  Toombs,  however,  was  earnest. 

"Mr.  Smalley,"  said  he,  "do  you  propose  to  remain  in 
town  to-night?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"Have  you  your  permit?" 

"My  what  ?"^ 

"Your  permit.  Strangers  who  visit  our  town,  especially 
strangers  from  the  North,  are  generally  murdered  in  their 
beds,  but  I  think  I  can  show  you  a  way  out  of  your  difficul 
ty.  Do  you  see  that  man  over  there?"  pointing  to  a  dapper 
little  German  Jew,  who  was  standing  in  front  of  a  dry  goods 
store  and  who  looked  as  though  he  would  faint  if  circum 
stances  compelled  him  to  slaughter  even  a  bedbug.  "Do  you 
see  that  man?  He  is  the  Grand  Cyclops  of  all  the  Klans  in 
this  region;  and  if  you  are  to  remain  here  all  night,  it  would 
be  only  prudence  on  your  part  to  see  him  and  get  what  we 
call  a  'certificate  of  safety/  Otherwise  I  am  afraid  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  promise  any  protection." 

Here  Smalley  began  to  show  symptoms  of  great  uneasi 
ness  and  seemed  anxious  to  make  arrangements  for  secur 
ing  the  certificate. 


206  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Just  go  to  Mr.  Franklin,"  said  General  Toombs,  "intro 
duce  yourself,  and  apply  for  protection.  Of  course  he 
doesn't  desire  to  implicate  himself  in  this  Ku-Klux  business, 
and  it  is  likely  he  will  pretend  to  be  greatly  astonished  and 
mystified  and  will  protest  that  he  knows  nothing  at  all  of 
the  matter.  You  seem  to  be  a  right  clever  fellow,  and  it  is 
possible  that  you  will  be  able  to  convince  Franklin  that  it  is 
his  duty  to  protect  you.  If  you  fail,"  continued  the  Gener 
al,  looking  grave  and  thoughtful,  "come  around  to  my  house. 
I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  But  don't  mention  my  name." 

The  seriousness  with  which  General  Toombs  imparted 
this  information  had  its  effect  upon  Smalley,  who  became 
thoroughly  frightened  before  the  evening  was  over.  It 
would  be  well,  however,  to  allow  General  Toombs  to  tell  the 
story  in  his  own  words : 

"He  was  a  right  starchy  fellow;  but  even  his  side  whis 
kers  couldn't  hide  his  conceit,  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
well  to  give  him  a  Ku-Klux  primer  and  start  him  to  the 
school  of  experience." 

"Was  he  an  apt  scholar,  General?" 

"The  best  you  ever  saw.  He  went  to  Franklin  for  his 
certificate  of  safety,  and  Franklin  was  astonished  beyond 
measure.  Smalley  was  persistent,  so  persistent,  indeed, 
that  Franklin  became  frightened,  and  it  seemed  to  be  only  a 
question  of  time  as  to  which  would  get  out  of  town  first." 

"Did  you  see  Smalley  after  this?" 

"See  him?  Why,  the  man  haunted  me.  He  was  even 
afraid  to  go  to  the  hotel,  and  I  met  him  about  dusk  wander 
ing  near  my  house.  Of  course  I  invited  him  in.  He  re 
fused  to  go  to  bed,  however,  and  I  was  compelled  to  sit  up 
with  him.  But  it  was  my  fault.  I  told  him  that  my  house 
was  liable  to  be  attacked  at  any  moment  by  a  crowd  of  Ku- 
Klux  murderers,  and  the  consequence  was  I  couldn't  even 
persuade  the  man  to  nod  in  his  chair.  It  was  very  amusing." 

"And  yet,  General,  Smalley  paid  you  some  high  compli 
ments  in  his  report  of  the  interview?" 

"Why,  of  course.  What  else  could  he  do?  I  treated  him 
well  and  saved  him  from  the  vengeance  of  the  Ku-Klux 
Klan  and,  for  my  own  amusement,  sent  him  off  in  my  buggy 
the  next  morning  before  day." 

"Before  day?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  207 

"Why,  certainly.  I  told  him  it  would  be  well  to  leave 
town  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  occurrences  of  the  day 
before,  and  he  left.  He  ought  to  be  grateful.  But  he 
amused  me,  and  I  like  to  be  amused.  Sometimes  I  laugh  at 
Smalley  just  before  I  go  to  sleep,  and  I  have  had  so  much 
fun  out  of  the  fellow  that  I  really  think  I  ought  to  give  him 
a  pension.  A  man  ought  to  pay  for  his  pleasures." 

Such  is  a  brief  and  hastily  written  account  of  Mr.  E.  V. 
Smalley's  interview  with  General  Toombs.  It  may  be  that 
both  of  them  will  claim  that  it  is  inaccurate;  but  if  so,  I 
shall  plead  a  lapse  of  memory,  for  it  has  been  many  weeks 
since  the  General  in  his  inimitable  way  related  to  me  the 
particulars  of  the  stuffing. 

ON  WINGS  OF  WIND 
CLEAVING  TO  THE  AIR  AT  THE  RATE  OF  A  MILE  TO  THE  MINUTE 

An  Hour  with  Tom  Btissey  on  the  Foremost  Position — What  Tom 
Is  Like  and  Who  He  Is — Breathing  Mechanism's  Response  to  the 
Caressing  Touch — A  Mistaken  Cow  and  a  Very  Badly  Mistaken 
Passenger. 

It  is  possible  you  don't  know  Tom  Bussey;  and  if  you 
did,  it  would  make  no  sort  of  difference.  I  should  write 
about  him  all  the  same.  Of  course  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me,  single-handed  and  alone,  to  stand  up  and  defy  a 
community  of  gentle  readers,  especially  on  Sunday;  but  I 
must  have  my  say  about  Tom  Bussey,  the  man  who  upon  a 
certain  occasion  some  months  ago  drove  a  special  train  from 
Atlanta  to  Chattanooga.  In  all  probability  you  have  never 
been  an  engineer — that  is  to  say,  you  have  never  been  the 
driver  of  a  locomotive.  I  make  this  remark  with  great  con 
fidence,  for  the  reason  that  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  few  men  in 
this  wide,  wide  world  of  ours  to  lay  a  confident  hand  upon 
the  polished  lever  that  controls  and  directs  the  impatient  pal 
pitations  of  a  steam  engine.  These  few  are  necessarily  men 
of  great  experience,  nerve,  and  courage,  ready  for  any 
emergency,  and  prepared  at  a  moment's  warning  to  encoun 
ter  one  of  those  direful  accidents  or  collisions  that  now  and 
then  send  a  thrill  of  horror  through  the  land.  The  driver 
of  a  locomotive,  you  must  remember,  assumes  grave  respon 
sibilities.  He  must  not  only  be  familiar  with  the  mysteries 


208  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  machinery,  he  must  not  only  be  alert  and  watchful,  but 
he  must  be  a  man  of  extraordinary  nerve  and  coolness.  By 
a  mere  motion  of  his  hand  he  can  send  hundreds  of  souls 
into  eternity,  or  he  can  save  them  from  the  most  horrible  of 
calamities.  The  slightest  miscalculation,  a  moment  of  for- 
getfulness,  a  puff  of  steam  too  much  is  sufficient  to  precipi 
tate  a  dire  mishap.  You  who  travel  on  railroads  are  little 
used  to  allow  your  minds  to  dwell  upon  the  dusty  man  in 
whose  blackened  hands  your  safety  lies.  Leaning  placidly 
back  in  an  elegantly  furnished  parlor  car,  it  would  be  un 
pleasant  to  you  to  conjure  up  the  ghastly  probabilities  that 
signal  you  at  every  curve  and  that  gather  thick  and  ominous 
at  every  crossing.  Ah,  no!  The  subject  would  be  unpleas 
ant.  You  prefer  to  allow  your  thoughts  to  rhyme  and  chime 
to  the  rhythmical  clatter  of  the  wheels  beneath  you  until 
finally  every  idea  that  you  have  conforms  itself  to  the  mo 
notonous  and  yet  not  unpleasant  cluckity !  clickerty !  clock- 
ity !  cluckity !  of  the  machinery  beneath  you.  For  aught 
you  know,  death  may  be  waving  his  scarlet  flag  just  beyond. 
But  what  odds?  Is  there  not  a  man  employed  to  watch 
these  things  for  you  ? 

Tom  Bussey 

But  I  was  talking  of  Tom  Bussey.  I  was  inveigled  by  an 
exceedingly  kind  note  of  invitation  from  B.  W.  Wrenn  and 
the  solicitations  of  numerous  fellow  sufferers  from  Savan 
nah,  who  were  driven  from  their  homes  by  the  presence  of 
the  yellow  fever  plague,  to  accompany  an  excursion  to  Chat 
tanooga.  The  schedule  was  advertised  as  an  exceptional 
one,  and  I  might  as  well  say  just  here  that  it  was  excep 
tional.  The  time  made  was  a  little  beyond  anything  I  have 
experienced  before  or  since,  save  when  Ned  Purcell  on  a 
memorable  occasion  rushed  a  delayed  train  through  from 
Dearing  to  Atlanta.  There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the 
thought  that  you  are  being  safely  whirled  through  the  air  at 
the  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute,  and  I  became  possessed  of  an 
incontrollable  desire  to  ride  upon  the  engine.  This  desire, 
I  have  since  become  convinced,  was  the  result  of  a  species 
of  insanity  brought  about,  no  doubt,  by  the  swift  motion  of 
the  cars,  I  am  thus  particular  to  denominate  it  insanity 


Early  Literary  Efforts  209 

because  I  am  morally  certain,  after  my  experience,  that  no 
sane  man  could  ever  desire  to  ride  upon  a  locomotive  know 
ing  beforehand  that  his  breath  would  be  taken  away  and  his 
nerves  unstrung. 

However,  call  it  what  you  will — insanity,  expectation,  or 
ignorance — I  soon  found  myself  upon  the  engine,  and  here 
I  was  unceremoniously  introduced  to  Tom  Bussey.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  Tom  that  day.  He  had  on  a  blue 
jacket,  a  pair  of  blue  pants,  and  a  tightly  fitting  cap;  and 
he  smiled  so  sweetly  upon  me  withal,  showing  his  white 
teeth  and  arching  his  finely  shaped  eyebrows,  that  I  felt 
quite  captivated.  And  he  was  cheerful,  too,  was  Tom,  and 
talkative,  but  never  for  one  moment  did  he  allow  his  atten 
tion  to  be  called  from  the  business  he  had  in  hand.  At  the 
first  glance  I  wondered  how  it  was  that  boys  were  allowed 
to  drive  locomotives;  but  before  I  concluded  my  engage 
ment  with  Tom  I  discovered  that,  so  far  as  experience  was 
concerned,  he  was  worth  half  a  dozen  grown  men.  He 
never  left  his  position,  but  remained  alert,  vigilant,  and 
watchful,  with  one  hand  upon  the  lever  gauge  and  the  other 
occasionally  patting  the  lever  itself  in  a  caressing  way,  as 
though  to  say:  "You  are  on  trial  now,  little  girl.  Put  in 
your  best  licks  over  this  grade  and  show  the  gentleman  what 
you  can  do  on  a  pinch."  And  every  time  he  put  in  his  ca 
resses  the  beautiful  machinery  responded  with  a  throb  that 
would  have  been  startling  had  it  been  not  so  pleasant. 

A  Hummer 

"You  have  a  very  neat  locomotive,  Mr.  Bussey." 

"She's  a  hummer,  sir,  a  regular  hummer.  It  seems  like  a 
pity  to  strain  her,  but  she's  jumping  along  now  in  a  way  that 
looks  like  business.  If  you  will  just  look  ahead,  sir,  and  try 
to  separate  the  crossties  with  your  eyes,  you  will  discover 
that  we  are  not  lingering  anywhere  on  the  road." 

The  passenger  endeavored  to  comply  with  this  remarkably 
reasonable  request,  but  he  grew  dizzy  and  allowed  the  cross- 
ties  to  separate  themselves. 

"I  could  let  her  out  several  links  yet,"  continued  Tom 
Bussey,  smiling  pleasantly ;  "but  I  am  eight  minutes  ahead, 
and  eight  minutes  in  a  rush  like  this  is  equal  to  an  hour  of 
regular  schedule  time." 


2io  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

The  passenger,  clutching  nervously  at  anything  in  reach 
that  seemed  to  offer  a  safe  anchorage,  raised  his  eyes  to 
ward  the  smoke-bedimmed  sky  and  thanked  heaven  that 
Tom  Bussey  was  eight  minutes  ahead  of  schedule  time. 
Why,  suppose  he  had  been  eight  minutes  behind  and  had 
unwound  the  several  links  which  were  stored  away  some 
where  in  the  mysterious  recesses  of  the  machinery  which 
he  controlled  so  coolly  and  lightly !  I  confess  to  you  that  I 
should  have  wished  myself  away  from  Tom  Bussey  and  his 
locomotive ;  and  even  as  it  was,  I  longed,  with  a  longing  that 
could  lay  claim  to  no  literary  origin,  for  a  quiet  nook  in  the 
Young  Men's  Library.  We  were  galloping  along  at  the  rate 
of  fifty-seven  miles  to  the  hour,  and  I  shuddered  to  think 
that  the  smiling  boy  on  the  other  side  might  develop  a  bar 
barous  tendency  to  cram  in  the  other  three  miles.  It  is  pos 
sible  that  I  may  be  tempted  to  ride  on  another  engine.  I 
may  be  gagged  and  bound  and  thrown  aboard  of  one,  or 
the  Federal  troops  may  be  called  in  to  suppress  my  nerv 
ousness.  But  in  the  absence  of  any  of  these  contingencies, 
I  shall  take  pleasure  hereafter  in  occupying  a  rear  seat  in 
the  rear  car. 

Catching  a  Cow 

"There's  a  cow  just  ahead,"  said  Bussey,  who  had  never 
once  taken  his  hand  from  the  lever  nor  his  eyes  from  the 
track,  "and  she's  going  to  be  badly  fooled." 

"How?"  inquired  the  nervous  passenger. 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  she  thinks  we  are  running  the  regular 
schedule,  and  she'll  get  caught." 

\Vith  this  he  reached  over  his  head,  touched  a  loop,  and 
the  whistle  shrieked  three  or  four  warnings  that  could  be 
heard  for  miles  around.  The  cow  would  not  be  warned, 
however;  and  the  nervous  passenger,  anticipating  a  crash 
that  would  forever  relieve  all  concerned  of  the  troubles  of 
life,  closed  his  eyes  and  awaited  results.  There  was  no 
crash,  however ;  and  when  he  looked  again,  Tom  Bussey  was 
coolly  inspecting  his  gauges. 

"Did  you  kill  her?"  asked  the  nervous  passenger. 

"O  no" — paying  the  tribute  of  a  smile  to  the  inexperience 
of  his  guest — "she  ain't  hurt.  We  struck  her  just  as  she 
started  to  leave  the  track,  and  there  she  sits  in  front  of  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  211 

smokestack  just  as  easy  and  neat  as  you  please.  She's 
traveling  now" — with  another  smile — "on  her  face.  She 
ain't  got  any  ticket  in  her  hat  nor  any  pass  in  her  pocket." 

Under  other  circumstances  the  passenger  might  have 
laughed  at  the  joke,  but  he  was  too  busily  employed  in  learn 
ing  the  art  of  holding  on.  And  he  did  learn  it.  And  he 
learned,  moreover,  how  to  get  off;  for  v/hen  the  engine 
stopped  for  a  moment  in  order  that  General  McRae  might 
send  a  telegram  forward,  the  nervous  passenger  crawled 
out  of  the  cab,  found  his  way  to  the  hindmost  coach,  and 
fell,  exhausted,  into  the  stalwart  arms  of  Sam  Corley,  who 
was  the  conductor  of  the  train.  Four  hours  later,  wander 
ing  around  the  streets  of  Chattanooga  with  Benny  Ferrill 
and  Martin  Wylly,  of  Savannah,  I  met  a  spruce-looking  little 
man  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  who  bowed  and  smiled 
as  he  passed.  It  was  Tom  Bussey,  and  he  looked  as  little 
like  the  intrepid  boy  who  had  slung  the  centennial  excursion 
train  to  Chattanooga  (Wrenn  will  perhaps  pardon  me  for 
not  paying  a  passing  tribute  to  the  Kennesaw  Route)  as  the 
amateur  looks  like  Othello  when  he  has  washed  his  olive 
jaws  in  rose  water  and  made  them  white  again. 

A  Stalwart  Engineer 

Speaking  of  engineers  reminds  me  of  Dell  Tant,  who  runs 
a  train  on  the  Georgia  Road.  He  is  one  of  the  most  vigor 
ous  specimens  of  manhood  to  be  found  anywhere.  I  was 
telling  Tant  of  the  neat  style  in  which  Bussey  picked  up  the 
cow. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "a  cow  is  like  a  woman.  Whenever  you 
catch  either  on  the  track,  you  have  got  to  be  mighty  tender 
with  your  steam,  for  she  is  bound  to  try  to  make  a  crossing. 
They  don't  seem  to  want  to  get  off  the  track  where  there  is 
no  road,  and  they  won't  until  they  see  that  they  are  bound 
to  be  run  over ;  and  even  then  the  cow  generally  leaves  her 
hind  legs  under  the  engine,  and  the  woman  allows  the  pilot 
to  take  off  a  yard  or  so  of  flounces." 

Here  there  was  a  little  laugh  in  the  crowd,  in  which  Tant, 
who  appears  to  be  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  did  not 
join.  He  was  evidently  in  a  serious  mood.  Squaring  his 
broad  shoulders,  he  continued : 


212  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"You  would  be  astonished  to  see  what  risks  people  take. 
They  seem  to  have  no  fear  whatever.  It  makes  my  hair 
stand  on  end  to  see  them  fooling  around  as  they  do.  You 
see,  an  engineer,  who  appreciates  all  the  risks  and  all  the 
danger,  is  bound  to  believe  that  people  have  sense  enough 
to  keep  out  of  the  way.  When  I  catch  a  man  on  the  track, 
I  am  obliged  to  believe  that  he  will  get  off  before  the  engine 
has  a  chance  to  catch  him.  But  sometimes  he  don't,  and 
then  the  public  talk  of  the  carelessness  of  engineers.  It 
makes  me  sick  to  think  of  the  chances  people  take." 

"Yes,"  says  Bill  Rainey,  another  engineer  on  the  Georgia 
Road,  "and  there's  another  mighty  curious  thing  in  my  ex 
perience.  Let  a  man  be  drunk  in  two  miles  of  a  railroad, 
and  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  don't  find  it  and  go  to  sleep  on  it. 
Don't  you  remember,  Tant,  the  man  you  run  over  on  the 
Macon  and  Augusta  Road?" 

How  Whisky  and  an  Engine  Wrecked  a  Man 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Tant,  "and  I  didn't  get  over  it  fast, 
either.  You  see,  Rainey  here  was  on  the  engine,  and  I 
thought  I'd  go  back  into  the  train  and  have  a  talk  with  the 
conductor.  I  stayed  out  a  few  minutes,  and  when  I  got 
back  and  relieved  Rainey  I  saw  a  black  bundle  on  the  track. 
Day  was  just  breaking,  and  the  headlight  didn't  show  well ; 
but  I  concluded  it  was  a  bush  or  something  left  on  the  rails 
by  the  track  raisers.  We  were  a  little  behind,  and  I  was 
giving  my  engine  the  hickory  pretty  lively.  I  made  no  ef 
fort  to  slacken ;  but  when  I  got  a  little  nearer  I  saw  it  was 
a  man  on  the  track  with  his  knees  drawn  up.  I  blew  on  the 
brakes,  reversed  the  engines,  and  put  on  a  full  head  of 
steam;  but  it  was  too  late.  Gentlemen,  I  couldn't  explain 
to  you  how  I  felt  when  I  saw  there  was  no  hope  for  the 
man.  You  would  have  to  experience  it  yourselves." 

"You  were  white  as  a  ghost,"  said  Rainey. 

"I  had  need  to  be,"  replied  Tant.  "We  went  back  to  look 
after  the  man;  and  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  you  never  saw 
such  a  sight  as  that  was.  We  could  only  tell  that  it  was  a 
man  by  his  face  and  his  shoes.  He  was  literally  torn  all  to 
pieces.  There  was  a  basket  near  by  containing  a  piece  of 
bacon  and  a  bottle  of  whisky.  The  basket  was  wrecked  and 


Early  Literary  Efforts  213 

the  bacon  slightly  injured,  but — would  you  believe  it,  gen 
tlemen  ? — the  bottle  didn't  have  a  wound  or  a  scar." 

Some  Cider 

"That's  a  good  tale,"  said  Jeff  Wood,  looking  benign  and 
suspicious. 

"It's  true,  though,"  says  Tant. 

"Yes,"  says  Rainey,  "I  was  there." 

"Well,  if  that's  the  case,"  said  some  one  in  the  crowd, 
"let's  all  go  and  have  some  cider." 

There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice  save  that  of  Wood,  who 
pulled  a  bottle  of  ice  water  from  his  pocket  and  drank  it 
standing.  J.  C.  H. 

TALE  OF  TWO  TRAMPS 
HUMAN  LIFE  AS  SEEN  IN  DIFFERENT  MOULDS 

A  Tramp  Printer  Discusses  the  Ways  of  the  World  in  a  Manner 
Peculiar  to  the  Craft — A  Singing  Frenchman  Passing  along  the 
Highway  of  Life. 


It  was  spring.  The  jay  bird,  perched  upon  the  topmost 
bough  of  the  oak  tree,  was  boldly  and  harshly  proclaiming 
the  fact.  All  nature  had  drifted  into  the  newborn  season; 
and  if  anything  else  were  lacking  to  make  sure  that  spring 
had  begun  her  benignant  reign,  it  was  only  necessary  to  look 
up  and  behold  a  lone  swallow  twittering  and  quivering  in 
the  far  fields  of  heaven.  It  was  a  day  to  wander  forth  into 
the  suburbs  and  lose  yourself  in  the  cool,  green  depths  of 
the  woods  that  lie  in  the  grandeur  of  perpetual  repose  be 
yond  the  city  limits.  As  Swinburne  would  remark,  a  bird 
overhead  sang,  "Follow !"  and  another  bird  sang,  "Here !" 
But  the  invitation  was  not  accepted ;  for  how  can  a  newspa 
per  man  accept  every  invitation  that  is  extended  him  in  these 
days  of  puffery  and  appreciation,  unless,  indeed  (to  para 
phrase  Algernon  Charles's  verse),  a  friend  down  the  street 
cries  "Follow,"  and  another  one  calls  out  "Beer"?  As  it 
was,  I  sneered  at  the  birds,  albeit  inwardly  enjoying  their 
light  and  feathery  freedom,  and  betook  myself  to  the  some 
what  commonplace  and  thankless  task  of  advising  unrepent- 


214  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ant  and  vainglorious  editors  to  cease  their  untimely  discus 
sions  of  convention  issues.  I  was  engaged  in  this  profitless 
business  when  suddenly  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  there 
appeared  upon  the  threshold  the  figure  of  a  puffed  and 
bloated  and  burly  person  whose  drunkenness  as  he  swayed 
to  and  fro  in  the  doorway  seemed  to  be  perfectly  gratuitous. 
The  man  whose  thoughts  had  but  a  moment  before  been 
divided  between  spring  and  the  convention  question  thought 
it  best  to  deal  facetiously  with  the  large  area  of  intoxication 
which  had  thus  unexpectedly  presented  itself. 

"Why,  howdy,  Jones !  Come  right  in  and  make  yourself 
at  home.  We've  been  expecting  you." 

"Jones  be  damn !  Do  I  look  like  a  man  named  Jones  ? 
Search  me.  Fling  me  down  and  take  out  my  visiting  cards 
and  see  if  my  name's  Jones.  What  sorter  game  are  you 
trying  to  play  on  me  now?" 

"Well,  of  course,  Jones,  if  you  are  going  to  deny  your 
patronymic,  you  can't  blame  me.  It's  a  mighty  easy  thing  to 
go  back  on  your  relations.  When  did  you  change  your 
name?" 

"Change  nothing.  Next  thing  you  know  you'll  be  calling 
me  a  burglar  and  ask  me  where  I  made  my  last  raise.  I 
ain't  changed  my  name,  and  my  name  ain't  Jones,  and  I 
ain't  no  burglar,  and  I  ain't  robbed  no  bank.  That's  what 
you'd  call — let's  see — that's  what  you'd  call  autobiography  on 
a  small  scale,  ain't  it?" 

"Certainly,  colonel." 

"Colonel  of  what?" 

"Why,  a  colonel  of  society — something  of  that  kind,  you 
know." 

"Well,  you  can't  come  that  game  on  me,  Colonels  don't 
get  hungry  in  this  country;  and  if  they  do,  I  ain't  that  sort 
of  a  colonel.  I'm  hungry  right  now,  and  I  wouldn't  mind 
tackling  a  cooked  cow." 

"Well,  but  a  colonel"— 

"O,  I  know  what  a  colonel  ought  to  be.  He  ought  to  be 
either  an  insurance  man  or  some  sort  of  a  commercial 
agent,  and  he  oughtn't  to  be  hungry,  either." 

"Well,  come  in  and  have  a  seat." 

"That's  some  consolation,  anyhow,  'squire;  but  a  cheer 


Early  Literary  Efforts  215 

with  me  in  it  and  me  with  no  dinner  for  two  days  is  a 
mighty  empty  concern." 

Looking  closely  at  the  puffed  and  ungainly  person  of  the 
tramp,  I  discovered  that  he  was  an  old  acquaintance.  We 
had  set  type  together  years  ago,  but  there  was  no  effusive 
ness  in  his  recognition  when  I  brought  this  fact  to  his  at 
tention.  His  reply,  however,  was  characteristic.  Drawing 
a  breath  so  long  and  deep  that  a  professional  novelist  would 
at  once  have  translated  it  into  a  heart-rending  sigh,  he  said : 

"Well,  some  folks  is  born  to  luck,  and  some  ain't.  Some 
go  up,  and  some  go  down.  Some  get  along,  and  some  don't. 
I'm  one  of  the  don'ts." 

"It  has  been  a  long  time  since  we  met." 

"That's  so,  'squire,  that's  so.  And  enduring  of  that  time 
I've  seen  hell,  and  a  heap  of  it.  I've  tramped  around  con 
siderable  for  a  young  man." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"It  'ud  take  me  a  whole  week  to  tell  you,  and  then  I'd  have 
to  hire  a  private  secretary.  First,  I  went  to  New  York.  I 
had  forty-nine  dollars  in  cash  money  when  I  landed  in  the 
mornin',  and  by  dinner  time  I  didn't  have  enough  to  rent  a 
place  on  the  sidewalk  where  I  could  eat  a  piece  of  orange 
peelin'  in  peace.  I  was  on  the  town." 

"Who  got  your  money?" 

"O,  the  boys.  I  give  it  up  to  the  gang.  They  went 
through  me.  I  felt  as  lonesome  as  a  spring  chicken  at  a 
camp  meetin'.  My  comb  was  cut,  and  I  really  believe  that 
if  I  had  crawled  into  the  bunghole  of  a  molasses  hogshead 
for  a  night's  lodging  some  of  the  chimney  sweeps  would 
have  sucked  me  out  next  morning  through  a  straw.  That 
was  my  first  term  at  school,  so  to  speak.  But  I've  gradu 
ated.  I've  got  so  now  that  when  I  have  money  it  gets  in  my 
way.  It  worries  me  like  everything.  But  I  ain't  been  wor 
ried  much  for  the  past  year." 

"Well,  how  do  you  manage  to  get  along?" 

"I  don't  get  along.  I  just  live.  I'm  sufferin'  right  now 
for  some  red  liquor;  and  if  I  don't  get  it,  somebody's  got 
to  hand  in  their  chips — I  don't  say  who.  I  don't  make  no 
threats,  but  things  is  culminatin'.  The  liquor's  got  to  come." 

"You  say  you've  been  all  around?" 

"From  Maine  to  Mexico  and  halfway  back  again;  and  if 


216  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

there  was  any  fun  going  on,  I  generally  got  what  I  was 
entitled  to." 

"How  did  you  get  along?" 

"Jaw,  cheek,  lip.  Gimme  a  good  suit  of  clothes,  and  I'll 
go  all  over  the  country  free.  Jaw  is  a  mighty  good  thing  in 
a  rough-and-tumble  argument  with  a  tavern  keeper,  but 
you've  got  to  have  clothes." 

"Well,  how  do  you  get  away  with  hotel  keepers  ?" 

"Talk.  I  talk  all  the  time  and  keep  on  talking.  A  man 
can  use  his  tongue  like  he  does  his  hand.  He  can  hit  a  big 
lick  with  it,  or  he  can  be  mighty  loving.  I've  struck  'em 
sometimes  where  I've  actually  had  to  go  out  and  buy  a  dol- 
lar-and-a-half  trunk." 

"Buy  a  trunk!    What  for?" 

"O,  for  looks.  Looks  is  everything ;  and  next  to  clothes, 
a  new  trunk  is  the  best.  Why,  you  just  go  out  and  buy  you 
a  trunk,  put  twenty- four  bricks  and  a  black  cravat  in  it,  and 
damme  if  you  ain't  solid  for  four  weeks.  The  hotel  niggers 
will  swear  you've  got  gold  in  the  box,  and  they'll  dance 
around  you  worse'n  a  lot  of  cannibals  around  a  fat  mission 
ary.  If  you  don't  want  to  get  the  bricks — why,  you  just  get 
you  eight  screws  and  you  fasten  your  trunk  down  to  the 
floor;  and  when  the  proprietor  sends  a  nigger  to  test  your 
baggage,  you  can  just  bet  your  life  he  will  make  a  good 
report.  A  man  can  board  eight  weeks  on  twenty-four 
bricks  if  he  backs  up  the  weight  with  his  jaw.  A  man  can 
get  along  well  enough  on  good  clothes;  but  with  good 
clothes  and  a  dollar-and-a-half  trunk,  he  can  be  mighty 
sumptuous.  I'm  talkin'  sense  now,  sure's  you're  born." 

"Do  you  always  find  it  so  easy?" 

"O  well,  I  stuck  type"  till  I  struck  North  Carolina,  and 
there  I  couldn't  make  money  enough  to  get  out  of  the 
derned  State  nohow  I  could  fix  it.  Then  I  joined  a  circus. 
I  driv'  tent  pins  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  I  was  promoted 
to  tend  to  the  hosses,  and  I  kept  on  risin'  till  I  got  to  drivin' 
the  steam  pianner.  It  was  Haight's  circus.  You  know 
Andrew  Haight.  Well,  he's  a  hellian  on  wheels,  you  bet. 
You  oughter  seen  me  in  the  procession  with  them  four  little 
ponies,  all  tangled  up  in  the  reins  and  a-pawin'  the  air. 
We  was  a  sight,  I  tell  you,  and  we  always  caught  the 
crowd." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  217 

"Are  you  working  now?" 

"O,  I'm  sorter  puttin'  in  a  lick  here  and  a  lick  there  till  I 
can  get  me  some  good  clothes,  and  then  I'm  goin'  to  board 
at  some  of  the  summer  resorts.  Can't  you  set  a  fellow  up 
for  some  liquor  and  a  chaw  of  tobacco?" 

II 

I  was  sitting  at  home  one  Sunday  evening  a  few  weeks 
ago  playing  with  a  pair  of  very  "obstropulous"  little  boys — 
I  believe  "obstropulous"  is  the  word — when  suddenly  I 
heard  some  one  going  along  the  street  humming  the  words 
of  a  French  song,  a  song  that  was  very  familiar,  for  the 
reason  that  I  had  many  and  many  a  time  heard  a  little  wom 
an  I  know  sing  it  to  one  or  the  other  of  the  boys  who  were 
at  that  moment  ripping  and  rearing  up  and  down  the  piazza. 
It  was  some  trifle  about  the  evening  bells,  and,  as  near  as  I 
can  remember,  the  verse  which  the  passer-by  was  singing 
was  as  follows : 

"Quand  les  cloches  du  soir, 

Avec  leur  voix  sonore 
A  ton  cceur  solitaire 

Viendront  parler  encore; 
Quand  tu  n'aura  d'ami 
Ni  d'amour  pres  de  toi — 
Pense  a  moi,  pense  a  moi, 
Pense  a  moi,  pense  a  moi !" 

The  oldest  little  boy  heard  it  too,  for  he  paused  in  his 
play  and  in  baby  fashion  challenged  the  man  who  was  sing 
ing. 

"Hey  O !"  he  bawled. 

The  man  turned  and  smiled.  It  was  growing  dark,  but  it 
was  not  too  dark  to  see  the  gleam  of  his  white  teeth  through 
his  unkempt  beard.  Pausing  thus,  he  detected  a  probable 
welcome  in  the  laughing  faces  of  the  little  children,  where 
upon  he  made  bold  to  open  the  gate  and  enter  the  yard.  His 
vocation  was  unmistakable.  He  was  a  tramp.  Every  thread 
of  his  frayed  and  dirty  garments,  every  patch,  every  move 
ment  of  his  not  ungainly  person  proclaimed  the  fact.  He 
came  forward  with  his  greasy  cap  in  his  hand.  Would 


218  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

monsieur  permit  him  to  look  at  the  beautiful  little  babies? 
It  will  be  perceived  that  the  tactics  of  the  man  were  admi 
rable.  "Monsieur,"  thus  delicately  flattered,  had  no  objec 
tion  whatever,  and  the  little  woman  whose  delight  it  is  to 
pet  and  spoil  these  same  babies  had  still  less. 

Thus  I  met  with  Antoine  Cadoret.  Seated  upon  the  low 
est  step  of  the  piazza,  he  told  us  the  story  of  his  wander 
ings.  He  was  a  French  Canadian  and  came  from  St.  Hya- 
cinthe,  in  the  province  of  Quebec.  He  was  now  on  his  way 
from  Florida  to  his  Northern  home,  and — would  monsieur 
believe  it  ? — he  had  eaten  nothing  for  twelve  hours. 

This,  the  reader  will  admit,  was  far,  very  far  removed 
from  the  usual  style  of  soliciting.  The  suggestion  was 
graceful,  and  the  result,  as  far  as  our  poor  larder  extended, 
was  gracious. 

Had  he  traveled  much  ?  Ah !  yes,  very  much.  When  the 
good  God  took  away  his  mother  and  his  sister,  he  became 
a  wanderer.  He  had  been  a  farmer,  a  fireman  upon  a  loco 
motive,  a  vendor  of  plaster-of -Paris  figures,  a  violinist  in 
an  orchestra,  a  tenor  in  a  negro  minstrel  show.  Did  he  get 
along  well?  Thank  heaven,  yes!  The  people  were  kind. 
Why  did  he  not  remain  in  the  negro  minstrel  business? 
Didn't  it  pay? 

"Ah!  monsieur,  you  cannot  know.  I  was  not  free.  I 
did  not  belong  to  myself.  I  could  not  face  the  big  lights, 
and  when  the  people  give  me  encore  they  raise  a  dust  that 
was  stifling.  I  ask  myself,  'What  do  I  here?'  and  my  heart 
make  answer  and  say:  'You  do  nothing/  There  were  no 
more  trees,  no  more  sunshine.  It  was  all  night.  And  then 
the  dust.  Ah !  monsieur,  you  cannot  know  of  the  greatness 
of  the  dust  and  the  heat.  It  was  not  like  the  broad  road. 
There  they  have  the  dust,  but  also  they  have  the  air.  Ah ! 
that  is  something — the  air!  But  then  we  cannot  have  all 
things." 

"Did  you  quit  the  minstrels?" 

"Well,  yes,  monsieur.    I  could  not  stay." 

Antoine  Cadoret  was  a  character.  There  is  no  doubt  of 
that.  He  was  a  tramp,  but  he  did  not  carry  the  credentials 
of  one.  There  was  no  trace  of  whisky  about  him.  He  was 
dirty  and  yet  not  repugnant ;  he  was  communicative  and  yet 
not  impertinent. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  219 

"Would  you  like  something  to  eat?" 

"Well,  monsieur  can  judge,"  with  that  indescribable  dep 
recating  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  gesture  of  the  hands 
that  only  a  Frenchman  can  make.  "I  have  had  no  food  for 
twelve  hours." 

At  this  juncture  the  little  woman  who  is  responsible  for 
my  domestic  comforts  spoke  to  him  in  his  native  tongue, 
using  such  colloquialisms  as  would  remind  him  of  his  home 
in  the  province  of  Quebec.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the 
face  of  this  poor  wanderer,  Antoine  Cadoret.  It  was  a 
study.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  could 
not  speak.  And  then  he  began  to  rattle  off  his  French 
thanks  in  a  way  that  was  quite  bewildering;  but  the  "ma- 
dame"  had  gone  to  get  him  a  supply  of  provisions,  so  that 
this  surprising  volubility  was  altogether  wasted.  When 
his  rations  did  appear,  he  seized  upon  them  with  an  avidity 
and  dispatched  them  with  an  earnestness  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  Confederate  soldier  in  the  Virginia  cam 
paign.  The  children  presided  at  the  dinner  and,  in  spite  of 
all  the  "madame"  could  say  or  do,  insisted  upon  having  their 
share  of  Cadoret's  viands — "viands,"  I  believe,  is  the  regula 
tion  word. 

His  meal  apparently  stimulated  his  volubility.  He  talked 
of  himself  and  of  Canada,  of  his  mother  and  his  sister,  who 
were  dead  long  ago — of  everything.  He  was  a  man  of  ideas 
and  education,  but  his  passionate  love  of  nature  had  made 
him  a  vagabond.  All  this  and  much  more  we  gathered  from 
his  conversation.  He  knew  the  note  of  every  bird,  the  name 
of  every  flower;  and  his  love  for  the  woods,  for  everything 
that  is  wild  and  free,  was  intense  and  ungovernable  and  be 
yond  even  his  own  comprehension. 

After  a  moment  of  strange  silence — strange,  indeed,  fol 
lowing  so  closely  upon  the  heels  of  his  volubility — he  said : 

"Would  madame  and  monsieur  object  to  a  song,  a  little 
English  ballad?" 

Not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  "madame"  and  "monsieur" 
had  been  anxious  to  hear  him  sing.  Whereupon  this  ragged 
outcast,  measuring  effects  with  the  eye  of  an  artist,  took  up 
his  stand  somewhere  between  the  piazza,  and  the  gate. and, 
leaning  upon  his  rough  staff,  sang  the  old,  old  song  of  "Katie 
Darling."  I  despair  of  describing  to  you  the  voice  of  this 


22O  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

man.  I  might  say  it  was  plaintively  tender  and  sweet.  I 
might  say  it  was  unsurpassed  in  volume  and  compass.  I 
might  say  it  was  exquisitely  flexible.  But  how  poor  these 
comparisons  appear  when  I  recall  the  effect  of  the  song! 
There  was  some  occult  quality  of  tone  and  expression  subtle 
enough  to  escape  all  analysis,  sweet  enough  to  suggest  tears 
rather  than  criticism.  I  have  heard  many  famous  singers, 
but  never  one  who  sang  like  Antoine  Cadoret.  Two  lovers 
upon  an  adjoining  piazza,  who  had  amused  us  by  their  silly 
giggling,  instinctively  clasped  hands  and  listened.  A  crip 
ple  hobbling  upon  his  crutches  paused  as  the  wonderful 
voice  fell  upon  his  ear.  A  courtesan,  trailing  her  scarlet 
robes  of  sin  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  stopped  to  listen 
and  then  passed  into  the  darkness  weeping.  Something 
not  in  the  song,  but  in  the  quality  of  the  voice,  suggested  all 
that  was  beautiful  in  life  and  desirable  in  death. 

The  visions  of  youth  and  hope  were  summoned  to  life 
again.  Ah !  had  you  been  there,  gentle  reader,  the  ghost  of 
your  dead  lover  would  have  arisen  from  the  grave  of  the 
past  pale  and  patient  and  tender.  Your  youth  would  have 
stood  before  you  in  all  the  freshness  and  purity  of  the  olden 
days.  The  romance  that  the  cares  of  business  have  long 
since  banished  from  your  memory  would  have  confronted 
you  with  outstretched  hands  and  appealing  eyes.  In  the 
gathering  dusk  the  dear  girl  who  died  so  many  years  ago, 
the  little  child  for  whom  you  mourned  so  long,  the  mother 
who  long  since  passed  from  death  unto  life,  the  wife  who 
was  so  patient  and  forgiving,  the  friend  who  was  so  brave 
and  forbearing  would  all  have  clustered  around  you,  sum 
moned  from  the  past  by  the  magic  of  Antoine  Cadoret. 

But  the  song  came  to  an  end,  and  the  singer  went  on  his 
way. 

"May  the  good  God  bless  you,  madame,  and  your  hus 
band  and  the  little  children !  I  shall  keep  you  in  my  heart." 

So,  with  a  bow  which  was  very  perfection  of  grace,  An 
toine  Cadoret,  the  tramp,  passed  out  of  the  gate  and  went 
up  the  street,  humming 

"Quand  les  cloches  du  soir." 

And  it  happened,  as  he  passed  out  of  view,  that  the  evening 
bells  were  ringing.  A  vote  was  taken,  the  result  of  which 


Early  Literary  Efforts  221 

was  received  with  loud  applause  by  the  "madame"  and  the 
babies.  We  voted  unanimously  :  "Good  luck  to  Antoine  Ca- 
doret." 

Long  before  this  he  is  well  on  his  way  to  Canada.  He 
has  passed  into  the  green  depths  and  through  the  dappled 
shadows  of  many  an  inviting  forest ;  and  many  a  love-lorn 
maiden,  I  wot,  leaning  from  her  window,  has  dropped  her 
fair  face  upon  her  bosom  and  wept  at  the  voice  of  this  most 
musical  vagabond,  wafted  to  her  in  all  its  tender  sweetness 
upon  the  odorous  winds  of  spring.  J.  C.  H. 

PROEMIAL  TO  PUTNAM* 
BEIXG  THE  RETURN  OF  A  YOUNG  MAN  TO  THE  HALLS  OF  His  FATHERS 

The  Big  Yellow  Cat  and  the  Fat  Baby — An  Hour's  Lecture  from  a 
Live  Colonel  and  a  Sudden  Dive  Deep  Down  into  His  Memory. 

The  old  proverb  says  that  chickens  always  come  home  to 
roost;  and,  stirred  by  the  same  instinct,  I  make  frequent 
visits  to  Putnam  County.  Putnam,  it  must  be  remembered, 
has  produced  some  rather  famous  people.  The  Lamars, 
including  Mirabeau  and  L.  Q.  C.,  first  saw  the  light  within 
its  borders.  So  did  the  Meriwethers.  So  did  the  Bledsoes. 
So  did  the  Branhams.  So  did  William  H.  and  Garrett 
Sparks.  So  did  Colonel  Tom  Hardeman,  of  Macon.  And 
so  did  a  great  many  other  notable  people.  It  is  a  little  cu 
rious,  too,  that  those  who  were  born  among  the  old  red  hills 
of  Putnam  develop,  once  a  year,  as  regularly  as  the  seasons 
come  and  go,  an  intolerable  desire  to  return  and  wander 
aimlessly  and  pleasantly  among  the  people  and  the  scenes 
they  knew  of  yore.  This  desire  has  developed  into  an  in 
stinct  with  me,  and  scarcely  a  season  passes  that  I  do  not 
return  to  get  a  whiff  of  the  dust  that  the  breezes  of  spring 
wantonly  set  afloat. 

A  little  while  ago  I  concluded  to  make  a  visit  to  the  neigh 
borhood  where,  for  a  few  months  during  his  early  career, 
the  late  Secretary  Seward  brandished  the  birch  of  the  coun 
try  schoolmaster.  A  few  years  ago  I  was  perfectly  familiar 
with  everybody  and  everything  in  that  section.  But  time 
brings  about  many  changes — changes  the  character  and  ex- 

1  Compare  "Seward's  Georgia  Sweetheart,"  page  201, 


222  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

tent  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  anticipate.  The  fields  had 
taken  new  shapes.  The  public  road  made  strange  and  puz 
zling  detours.  The  very  air  seemed  different.  There  is 
something  pathetic  in  the  eagerness  with  which  one  who 
has  been  long  absent  from  his  home  strives  to  recognize  old 
landmarks  and  to  locate  familiar  places.  Once  upon  a  time 
— ah !  that  happy,  happy  time  ! — I  knew  every  feature  of  the 
landscape  in  that  beloved  land.  The  trees  nodded  to  me  as 
one  friend  nods  to  another.  The  tall  corn  waved  its  soft 
salutations.  The  ground  squirrel,  as  swift  as  a  beam  of 
light,  paused  on  the  lower  rail  of  the  fence  and  winked  at 
me  in  no  unwelcome  mood.  And  even  Dick  Griffin's  brindle 
cur,  noted  for  his  fierceness,  would  cease  to  bay  and  tug  at 
his  chain. 

But,  alas !  all  this  was  changed.  Unfamiliar  growths  of 
pine  met  my  eye  on  every  side.  Whole  forests  had  disap 
peared.  Negro  cabins,  as  plentiful  and  seemingly  as  un 
substantial  as  mushrooms,  dotted  the  land.  The  ground 
squirrel  flitted  along  the  fence  like  a  shadow  and  suddenly 
dived  into  a  hole,  where,  no  doubt,  filled  with  fear  and  ap 
prehension,  he  told  his  little  family  of  the  advent  of  a 
stranger.  Even  the  little  village  of  Rockville  was  changed. 
New  clearings  had  been  made,  two  stores  had  been  built,  an 
additional  saloon  had  put  in  an  appearance,  and  various 
other  improvements  had  been  made — at  least  they  were 
called  improvements — but,  to  my  mind,  the  little  place  would 
have  improved  by  remaining  as  it  was. 

About  two  miles  northeast  of  Rockville  is  a  settlement 
known  throughout  the  country  as  Turnwold.  It  was  here 
that  the  first,  last,  and  only  country  newspaper  was  ever 
printed,  and  it  was  here  that  William  H.  Seward  figured 
for  a  brief  period  as  a  Georgia  schoolmaster.  It  was  dark 
and  raining  when  I  arrived  at  Turnwold,  and  I  made  bold 
to  ride  for  the  first  light  I  saw.  The  sound  of  my  horse's 
hoofs  aroused  the  kennel,  which  is  attached  to  every  coun 
try  establishment,  and  I  pretty  soon  discovered  that  the 
beacon  which  had  been  my  guide  streamed  from  the  window 
of  a  substantial  and  comfortable-looking  farmhouse.  I 
finally  succeeded  in  making  myself  heard ;  and  a  man,  whose 
voice  sounded  cheery  enough  through  the  mist  and  the  driz 
zle,  came  to  the  door. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  223 

"Kin  we  take  you  in?  Well,  I  reckin  we  kin,  ef  thar  ain't 
more'n  a  dozen  un  you,  an'  ef  you're  right  shore  you  ain't 
no  inshorence  agent  ner  no  sowin'  machine  man  ner  yit  a 
book  peddler." 

I  promptly  disavowed  any  connection  whatever  with  these 
light  but  lucrative  occupations;  and  the  farmer,  with  that 
bluff  hospitality  characteristic  of  his  class,  responded: 

"All  a-settin',  'squire.  You  don't  talk  glib  enough  fer  one 
o'  them  fellers.  I  reckin  you  better  light  whilst  I  chunk  off 
them  cussed  dogs.  They  git  right  nasty  w'en  they  snuff  a 
stranger.  They  come  ding  nigh  chawin'  up  a  pianner  chuner 
las'  week.  He  scuffled  like  a  grown  man  an'  squalled  like  a 
sixteen-year-old  gal  with  a  green  lizard  down  her  back." 

I  had  known  mine  host  of  old,  but  I  waited  before  mak 
ing  myself  known,  to  see  if  he  wouldn't  recognize  me. 

"Jes*  walk  right  in,  'squire,  while  I  get  your  creetur  in 
out  o'  the  wet." 

It  was  an  exceedingly  pleasant  home  to  which  my  hospi 
table  friend  thus  informally  introduced  me.  Upon  every  side 
the  evidences  of  comfort  and  happiness,  of  honest  industry 
and  hearty  enjoyment  were  abundant.  Upon  everything, 
from  the  large  yellow  cat  purring  softly  and  sleepily  by  the 
hearthside  to  the  spinning  wheel  in  the  corner,  the  peace  and 
repose  of  content  seemed  to  have  settled.  The  matronly- 
looking  wife,  with  her  pleasant  smile,  and  the  daughter, 
with  her  graceful  form,  black  eyes,  and  beautiful  hair, 
who  might  have  sat  for  a  picture  of  Bret  Harte's  "Higgles," 
together  with  the  abnormally  fat  and  exceedingly  cheerful 
baby,  formed  an  interesting  group.  And  then  there  was  an 
affable  and  dignified  old  gentleman  whom  the  ladies  called 
"Colonel." 

Suddenly,  while  I  was  playing  with  the  fat  baby  and  men 
tally  calculating  how  many  pounds  of  sausage  he  would 
make  if  carefully  ground  up,  the  young  girl  with  the  beau 
tiful  hair  gave  a  smothered  scream. 

"Why,  law,  ma !"  and  then  she  rushed  to  the  door.  "Pap, 
O  pap,  come  here !" 

"Pap,"  thus  summarily  summoned,  not  responding,  the 
girl  bounced  out  into  the  mist  and  rain  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  returned  with  "pap"  in  tow.  She  had  recognized  me, 


224  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

and  mine  host  came  back  with  the  most  hospitable  impreca 
tions  upon  his  lips. 

"Well,  dog  on  my  cats!  Ef  this  don't  beat  the  Jews! 
A-runnin'  up  on  me  out  thar  in  the  dark  an*  never  sayin* 
who's  who.  Well,  dang  my  buttons !"  after  shaking  my 
hand  with  a  heartiness  that  one  never  meets  with  in  cities. 
"How  you  have  come  out !  Ain't  he  growed,  mother?  He 
used  to  be  slim  ez  a  tapeworm.  Well,  ding  my  hide !" 

Everybody  joined  in  the  enthusiasm  that  is  so  grateful  to 
those  who  fear  they  have  been  forgotten.  Even  the  baby 
cooed  and  laughed  in  a  manner  which  the  mother  said  was 
quite  unusual  even  for  so  precocious  an  infant.  They  were 
all  enthusiastic  but  the  "Colonel."  He  merely  rubbed  his 
venerable  forehead  with  the  end  of  his  walking  cane  and 
gazed  abstractedly  into  the  fire.  It  was  apparent  enough 
that  my  advent  had  interrupted  the  Colonel's  statement  of 
some  theory  of  religion  or  politics,  for  no  sooner  had  com 
parative  quiet  been  restored  than  he  turned  to  me  and  re 
marked  in  the  tone  of  one  suddenly  resuming  a  suspended 
argument : 

"We  must  have  sistim,  sir — sistim  in  guvunment  an'  sis- 
tim  in  farmin'.  Thar's  got  to  be  a  change.  We  can't  go 
on  at  this  rate,  sir.  We've  got  to  move  up  nigher  to  econ 
omy.  We've  got  to  fetch  things  back  whar  they  started 
frum.  Sistim  is  the  thing.  Why,  sir,  ef  it  wuzent  fur  sis 
tim  in  natur',  the  intire  whatshi  name  would  drap  back 
into  the  origernel  whatyoumaycallem." 

I  readily  assented  to  his  somewhat  dubious  proposition; 
and  the  Colonel,  thinking  he  had  found  a  fresh  recruit,  pro 
ceeded  to  talk  in  the  same  strain  for  an  hour  or  more.  I 
finally  found  an  opportunity  to  have  some  conversation  on 
a  subject  of  my  own  choosing. 

"Colonel,  did  you  ever  know  a  man  named  Seward,  who 
once  taught  school  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"When  might  that  have  been?'1  asked  the  Colonel  some 
what  cautiously. 

"About  the  year  1819." 

"Seward,  S-e-w-a-r-d,"  said  the  Colonel,  reflectively  rub 
bing  his  cane  against  his  forehead.  "Lemme  see.  There 
was  Pute  Seward,  that  used  to  live  on  the  Billy  Walker 
place ;  but  he  was  drowned  at  Armor's  Ferry." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  225 

"Thar  was  Buck  Seward,"  suggested  mine  host. 

"He  looked  like  keepin'  school,"  said  the  Colonel  deri 
sively.  "He  couldn't  keep  hisself.  Babe  Folsom  put  his 
light  out  at  Harmony  Grove.  No,"  continued  the  Colonel, 
"I  disremember  any  sich  man." 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  that  the  Colonel  failed  to  re 
member  the  fact,  the  late  Secretary  Seward  taught  school 
within  three-quarters  of  a  mile  of  where  we  were  then  sit 
ting,  nearly  sixty  years  ago.  Or,  to  be  more  exact,  on  the 
2d  of  March,  1819,  the  following  advertisement  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  Milledgeville  Journal: 

"UNION  ACADEMY. — The  friends  of  science  are  respect 
fully  informed  that  a  private  academy  has  lately  been  estab 
lished  in  the  neighborhood  of  Major  William  Alexander, 
Mr.  William  Ward,  and  Colonel  William  E.  Adams,  in  Put 
nam  County,  on  a  site  obtained  from  Francis  Ward,  Esq., 
not  far  from  Garner's  Ferry,  and  will  go  into  operation  on 
the  I9th  of  April.  The  academy  edifice,  which  will  be  ready 
for  the  reception  of  students  by  that  day,  will  be  spacious 
and  commodious,  adapted  to  the  accommodation  of  eighty 
to  one  hundred  scholars  in  two  schools.  The  rector, 
Mr.  William  H.  Seward,  is  late  from  Union  College,  New 
York,  from  which  institution  he  conies  highly  recommended 
as  a  young  gentleman  of  good  moral  character  and  distin 
guished  industry  and  literary  acquirements.  He  will  teach 
the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  theoretical  and  practical 
Mathematics,  Logic,  Rhetoric,  Nature  and  Moral  Philoso 
phy,  Chemistry,  Geography,  English  Grammar,  and  such  oth 
er  branches  as  are  usually  taught  in  Northern  colleges.  The 
common  branches  of  education — spelling,  reading,  writing, 
etc. — will,  of  course,  be  taught  in  this  institution.  The  price 
of  instruction  will  be  $15,  $22,  or  $30,  according  to  the 
branches  taught.  Board  may  be  had  in  respectable  families 
at  a  sum  not  exceeding  $125.  From  the  respectability  and 
acknowledged  heartiness  of  the  neighborhood,  the  cheapness 
of  board  and  tuition,  and  the  qualifications  of  the  rector,  the 
trustees  feel  warranted  in  recommending  this  infant  estab 
lishment  to  the  attention  of  the  public.  Persons  disposed  to 
send  their  children  will  enter  them  without  delay  with  the 
Treasurer,  Major  William  Alexander,  designating  the  stud- 
15 


226  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ies  they  wish  them  to  pursue,  in  order  that  the  requisite  aid 
may  be  procured  for  Mr.  Seward ;  it  being  understood  also 
that  if  any  students  are  excluded  for  the  want  of  room  they 
must  be  from  among  those  last  entered.  Communications 
directed  through  the  medium  of  the  post  office  in  Eatonton 
to  William  H.  Seward,  Rector  of  Union  Academy,  or  to 
William  Turner,  Secretary,  or  to  William  Alexander,  Treas 
urer  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  Union  Academy,  the  post 
age  being  duly  paid,  will  receive  prompt  attention.  By  or 
der  of  the  trustees.  WILLIAM  TURNER,  Secretary." 

The  tradition  is  that  Seward,  who  was  at  that  time  a 
young  graduate,  had  some  misunderstanding  with  his  father 
which  led  him  to  abandon  the  paternal  rooftree  and  drift 
southward.  He  came  highly  recommended  and  was  at  once 
employed  by  the  trustees  of  Union  Academy  at  a  salary  of 
about  eight  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Union  Academy  was 
one  of  the  first  institutions  of  the  kind  established  in  Geor 
gia  and,  during  the  short  time  that  Seward  officiated  as  its 
principal,  was  one  of  the  best  and  most  popular.  It  opened 
on  the  i Qth  of  April  with  sixty-five  pupils,  and  a  month 
later  the  number  had  increased  to  more  than  seventy. 

Seward's  experience  as  a  Georgia  schoolmaster  was  very 
short.  After  he  had  taken  charge  of  the  school  and  seemed 
securely  settled  in  the  quiet  little  neighborhood,  it  is  said 
that  he  wrote  to  his  father  informing  him  of  his  where 
abouts.  Pretty  soon  thereafter  a  Mr.  Philo  D.  Woodruff 
was  sent  out  by  the  elder  Seward  to  fill  the  place  of  his  son 
as  teacher.  Woodruff,  to  refer  to  him  briefly  here,  finally 
settled  in  Greensboro;  and  when  Seward  came  south  years 
afterwards  as  ex-Governor  of  New  York,  he  found  his 
friend  Philo  married  and  settled,  and  he  spoke  of  him  as 
"fat,  uncouth,  and  prosperous." 

This,  however,  by  the  way.  Whatever  difference  existed 
between  the  Sewards,  father  and  son,  was  amicably  settled ; 
for  within  a  very  few  months  Woodruff  was  installed  as  the 
principal  of  Union  Academy,  the  trustees  relieving  Seward 
from  the  obligation  of  his  contract. 

Great  changes  have  taken  place  in  Turnwold  since  Se- 
ward's  rectorship  of  Union  Academy.  The  trustees  have  all 
passed  away.  The  dwelling  house  and  plantation  of  Major 


Early  Literary  Efforts 

William  Alexander,  the  father  of  Colonel  P.  W.  Alexander, 
was  purchased  by  William  Turner  and  was  for  many  years 
before  and  during  the  war  the  residence  of  the  late  Joseph 
A.  Turner,  a  publicist  of  large  local  reputation,  who  during 
the  war  edited  and  printed  upon  his  plantation  that  unique 
little  publication,  The  Countryman. 

The  site  of  Union  Academy  was  in  the  midst  of  a  wood, 
about  three  hundred  yards  from  the  public  road  and  near  a 
clear,  cool  spring.  A  few  years  ago  a  little  mound  of  earth, 
a  few  crumbling  bricks,  and  a  decaying  sill  showed  where 
the  building  had  stood ;  but  now  even  these  signs  have  dis 
appeared.  When  I  visited  the  place  the  other  day,  accom 
panied  by  my  cheery  host,  an  unseasonable  mocking  bird  was 
singing  in  an  acacia  near  where  the  schoolhouse  had  stood, 
but  a  flame-colored  oriole  flitted  uneasily  among  the  green 
leaves  of  an  oak  tree.  My  farmer  friend  readily  remem 
bered  the  local  tradition  that  "Bill"  Seward,  as  he  called 
him,  had  taught  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Ross  Adams  used  to  go  to  school  to  Seward,"  said  he, 
"and  some  of  the  Terrells,  I  reckon.  Seward  wuz  one  o' 
the  Abolitionist  kind,  wuzn't  he?" 

"Slightly  on  that  line." 

"Yes,  durn  him !  Him  an*  his  kind  f otch  on  the  war.  It 
would  'a'  bin  a  mighty  good  move  to  V  chained  him  down 
here  w'en  we  had  him." 

In  1846  Mr.  Seward  visited  the  neighborhood  where  he 
had  once  officiated  as  the  principal  of  Union  Academy  and 
called  upon  Major  Alexander,  in  whose  hospitable  house  he 
had  made  his  home.  The  conversation  that  ensued  has  been, 
in  part,  preserved  among  the  records  of  William  Turner, 
who,  as  has  been  stated,  was  the  Secretary  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees  of  the  Academy.  Seward  was  accompanied  by 
Woodruff;  and  when  they  visited  Major  Alexander,  Wood 
ruff  asked : 

"Don't  you  know  this  man,  Major?" 

"I  do  not,"  said  Major  Alexander. 

"But  you  do  know  him  well.  You  have  seen  him  often 
before." 

"I  can't  make  him  out." 

"This  is  Ex-Governor  Seward,  of  New  York,  who  once 
taught  school  here  and  boarded  with  you." 


228  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"It  is  impossible/* 

"Well,  it  is  Seward,  certain/' 

"Well,  it  may  be;  but  if  it  is  Seward,  his  head  is  not  half 
so  red  as  it  used  to  be.  Come  in,  Mr.  Seward.  How  do  you 
do?  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

And  this  was  the  last  that  Georgia  saw  of  Seward. 

J.  C.  H. 

ONE  MAN'S  HISTORY 
THE  STORY  OF  A  MAN  NAMED  JONES 

The  Faithfulness  of  a  Fair  Woman — Uncle  Davy  Roach's  Comments 
— How  Judge  Clements  Lost  a  Son-in-Law — A  Letter  from  "Jeb" 
Stuart. 

I 

Having  occasion  recently  to  hunt  through  the  files  of 
the  Rockville  Record  and  Vindicator,  which  had  been  faith 
fully  kept  by  the  ordinary  of  the  county,  my  eye  fell  upon 
two  very  curious  items  in  the  columns  of  that  exceedingly 
able  journal.  Why  these  items  should  attract  the  attention 
of  one  who  was  merely  searching  for  an  advertisement  is 
more  than  I  can  say,  but  I  append  them  not  only  as  ex 
planatory  of  the  facts  that  afterwards  came  to  my  knowl 
edge,  but  as  specimens  of  vigorous  English.  The  first  ex 
tract  is  from  the  paper  dated  May  18,  1854,  and  is  as  fol 
lows: 

"Our  young  friend  John  Jones,  who  has  been  for  several 
years  superintending  the  large  planting  interests  of  Judge 
Horatio  Clements,  suddenly  disappeared  on  Sunday  of  last 
week  and  has  not  been  heard  of  since.  There  are  various 
rumors  afloat  in  regard  to  this  mystifying  occurrence,  some 
of  which  go  so  far  as  to  charge  him  with  forging  the  name 
of  the  distinguished  gentleman  in  whose  employ  he  has 
been  for  several  years." 

The  next  extract  is  from  the  paper  bearing  date  of  June 
I,  1854: 

"We  were  much  pleased  on  Thursday  last  to  receive  a 
visit  from  our  distinguished  fellow  citizen,  Judge  Horatio 
Clements,  and  his  charming  daughter,  Miss  Mary  Clements, 
who  came  to  investigate  the  mysteries  of  'the  art  preserva- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  229 

tive.'  It  is,  indeed,  encouraging  to  the  weary  editor  when 
beauty  condescends  to  smile  upon  his  labors. 

"In  this  connection  it  gives  us  pleasure  to  state  that  the 
rumors  recently  circulated  to  the  effect  that  our  young  friend 
John  Jones  had  forged  the  name  of  Judge  Clements  are 
utterly  unfounded.  The  Judge  says  he  never  knew  a  nobler 
or  a  truer  man,  and  we  ourselves  unhesitatingly  bear  wit 
ness  to  the  fact.  Thus  far,  however,  nothing  has  been 
heard  of  Mr.  Jones." 

As  I  have  said,  I  cannot  explain  why  these  paragraphs 
should  have  attracted  my  attention,  nor  do  I  care  to  explain 
it.  The  fact  itself  is  sufficient.  I  read  them  aloud  to  the 
ordinary,  a  fat,  bald-headed,  commonplace  sort  of  person. 

"Do  you  know  Judge  Clements?"  I  asked. 

"I  ought  to.    I  married  his  daughter." 

"Your  wife,  then,  is  the  Miss  Mary  alluded  to  here?" 

"No.    I  married  her  sister." 

"Was  Jones  ever  heard  from?" 

"O  yes.    Years  afterwards  I  heard  from  Jones." 

"Why  did  he  go  away  so  suddenly?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  ordinary  with  sudden  ani 
mation,  "if  you'll  go  up  and  take  dinner  with  me,  I'll  give 
you  Jones's  history.  It's  curious,  very  curious." 

Of  course  I  accepted  the  ordinary's  invitation.  Free 
lunches  are  acceptable  enough  to  newspaper  men,  but  when 
it  comes  to  a  whole  dinner  it  amounts  to  something  like  a 
treat.  I  went,  enjoyed  the  ordinary's  hospitality,  met  his 
wife,  a  faded  little  blonde,  and  was  introduced  to  Miss 
Mary,  who  even  at  the  age  of  forty  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkably  beautiful  women  I  have  ever  seen.  I  use  the 
word  "beautiful"  because  no  other  adequate  description  oc 
curs  to  me  now.  She  was  not  beautiful  as  beauty  goes  now 
adays,  but  she  possessed  that  charm  of  manner  and  of  ex 
pression  that  far  surpasses  all  beauty,  and  her  eyes  reminded 
me  of  those  I  have  seen  in  portraits  which  follow  you  with 
sad  inquisitiveness  wherever  you  go  and  haunt  you  for 
years  and  years  afterwards.  That  afternoon  the  ordinary, 
sitting  on  his  verandah  and  lazily  drawing  consolation  from 
a  clay  pipe,  solved  for  me  the  mystery  of  Jones's  disap 
pearance. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  the  story  in  the  words  of  the 


230  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ordinary.  He  took  a  practical  view  of  the  matter  totally 
at  variance  with  the  facts  in  the  case. 

John  Jones  was  a  native  of  Virginia.  He  came  to  Geor 
gia  when  quite  a  boy,  attracted  the  notice  of  Judge  Clem 
ents,  was  employed  by  him,  and  finally  was  promoted  to 
the  position  of  superintendent  of  the  judge's  two  planta 
tions,  which  joined  each  other.  The  Judge,  like  Jephthah, 
had  a  daughter  whom  he  loved  passing  well.  She  had  stud 
ied  in  Baltimore,  New  York,  and  in  Europe,  and  she  returned 
shortly  after  Jones  had  been  made  the  confidential  adviser 
of  the  Judge  and  the  superintendent  of  his  affairs.  I  have 
been  shown  a  photograph  of  Jones,  or,  rather  I  should  say, 
an  ambrotype  (how  these  old-fashioned  things  confuse 
one ! )  ;  and  although  it  was  somewhat  faded,  it  gave  a  fair 
representation  of  the  man  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance. 
There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  face  except  its 
firmness.  The  singular  mildness  of  the  blue  eyes  was  re 
lieved  by  the  square  chin,  and  there  was  something  in  the 
pose  of  the  picture  that  gave  unmistakable  evidence  of 
strength  of  will  and  unconquerable  pride. 

If  I  were  writing  you  a  story,  I  might  go  on  and  elabo 
rate  these  things,  as  is  the  custom  of  those  who  give  them 
selves  over  to  the  fascinations  of  fiction;  but  as  I  am  writ 
ing  of  that  which  is  known  to  hundreds  who  read  the  Con 
stitution,  I  prefer  to  confine  myself  to  a  prosy  narration  of 
facts,  but  at  the  same  time  I  propose  to  narrate  these  facts 
in  my  own  way. 

II 

One  day  it  was  given  out  that  Miss  Mary  was  to  return, 
and  orders  were  issued  that  the  carriage  should  be  ready 
the  next  morning  to  meet  the  train  at  Rockville.  The  Judge 
and  his  wife  were  to  go,  and  there  were  a  dozen  neighbors 
ready  to  accompany  them,  all  dying,  as  they  said,  to  wel 
come  Miss  Mary.  Jones  did  not  join  in  the  general  en 
thusiasm.  He  remembered  Miss  Mary  only  as  an  awk 
ward  schoolgirl,  who  was  always  ready  to  tease  and  vex 
him,  and  who  upon  various  occasions  had  made  him  pain 
fully  aware  that  his  position  was  that  of  a  hireling.  He 
attributed  these  things  to  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth  and 
forgave  them  accordingly,  but  the  remembrance  of  them 


Early  Literary  Efforts  231 

was  not  pleasant.  Nevertheless,  he  would  be  glad  to  see 
her  back.  It  would  enliven  the  old  place  and  probably  add 
to  the  cheerfulness  of  his  friend  the  Judge,  who  had  been 
growing  feeble  and  languid  of  late.  He  discovered,  more 
over,  that  he  would  have  business  in  Rockville  on  the  very 
day  Miss  Mary  was  to  return,  and  long  before  the  carriage 
was  ready  he  had  mounted  his  horse  and  gone.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear,  when  Jones  arrived  in  Rockville,  he  sud 
denly  became  convinced  that  the  business  which  carried  him 
there  could  be  as  well  transacted  any  other  day,  and  this 
conviction  made  him  restless,  uneasy,  and  dissatisfied.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  return  to  the  plantation,  but  he  did  not 
follow ;  and  it  was  an  hour  after  the  Clements  carriage  had 
rolled  out  of  the  village  that  he  spurred  his  gray  into  a 
gallop  and  went  clattering  down  the  dusty  road.  In  a  half 
hour  he  caught  sight  of  the  lumbering  vehicle  creeping  over 
the  red  hills.  In  a  moment  he  had  passed  it,  lifting  his  hat 
and  bending  low  to  the  saddle  as  he  did  so. 

"Who  is  that,  papa?"  asked  Miss  Mary  as  this  athletic 
and  sun-burned  vision  went  by. 

"That's  John,  our  John,"  replied  the  Judge.  "Don't  you 
remember  John  Jones?" 

"I  think  he  might  have  stopped,  if  only  for  old  acquaint 
ance  sake,"  responded  Miss  Mary. 

"You  must  remember,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Judge  Clements, 
snapping  her  little  black  eyes  and  moistening  her  cold,  thin 
lips,  "that  you  are  no  longer  a  child.  It  would  have  been 
highly  improper  in  Jones  to  have  stopped,  and  he  knows 
it." 

"But,  mother,  he  is  one  of  us,"  said  the  Judge  somewhat 
petulantly. 

"He  is  among  us,  but  not  of  us,"  responded  the  aristo 
cratic  old  lady  with  some  asperity. 

The  Judge  remained  silent,  and  Miss  Mary,  looking  out 
of  the  window  upon  the  waving  fields  of  wheat  and  corn, 
allowed  her  thoughts  to  stray  after  the  not  unhandsome 
horseman  who  had  just  passed  them.  As  for  the  horseman 
himself,  he  rode  on  with  little  thought  of  those  in  the  car 
riage,  and  he  was  just  about  to  urge  his  gray  into  a  faster 
pace  when  he  heard  a  noise  from  the  direction  of  the  car- 


232  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

riage  that  caused  him  to  turn  in  his  saddle.  He  saw  at  a 
glance  that  there  was  some  trouble  and,  without  in  the  least 
abating1  the  speed  of  his  horse,  wheeled  and  went  back. 

"What  is  the  matter  here  ?"  he  asked  of  the  negro  driver. 

"I  dunno,  Mars  John.  Dis  here  off  hoss  has  done  gone 
an'  tuk  de  studs  ag'in." 

"Did  you  strike  him?" 

"I  gin  'im  one  or  two  right  smart  cuts,  Mars  John." 

"You  ought  to  have  had  them  yourself,"  sharply  and 
curtly.  "Get  down  from  there.  Take  my  horse  and  go 
home." 

Dismounting,  Jones  took  the  seat  of  the  driver  and,  with 
out  even  so  much  as  a  look  at  those  who  sat  upon  the  in 
side,  seized  the  reins  and  drove  homeward.  His  voice, 
cheery,  cool,  and  confident,  acted  like  magic  upon  the  obsti 
nate  horse,  who  promptly  bent  down  to  his  work,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  the  carriage  was  spinning  along  at  a  rapid 
rate. 

"He  didn't  use  the  whip  once,"  said  Miss  Mary  after 
they  were  all  safe  at  home. 

"He  doesn't  need  to,"  replied  the  Judge  with  a  considera 
ble  show  of  interest.  "He  is  a  wonderful  man.  There  isn't 
a  nigger  on  my  place  that  wouldn't  die  for  him.  He  never 
gets  into  a  passion." 

"He  knows  how  to  make  his  way,"  said  Mrs.  Judge 
Clements  spitefully. 

in 

I  need  not  detain  you  with  my  detailed  account  of  the 
history  of  John  Jones.  It  is  enough  to  know  that  he  fell 
in  love  with  Mary  Clements  and  that  this  love  was  recipro 
cated.  This  strong  man  gave  himself  up  entirely  to  the 
whims  and  caprices  of  the  wayward  girl.  He  was  another 
being  entirely.  Always  gentle  and  patient,  he  came  to  bring 
these  qualities  to  rare  perfection.  But  all  this  was  to  end. 
It  soon  became  bruited  about  that  John  Jones  was  to  marry 
Mary  Clements,  and  then  the  gossips  began  their  work. 
One  day,  and  the  last  he  ever  saw  of  Rockville,  Jones  was 
in  the  post  office  waiting  for  the  mail.  He  was  sitting  upon 
a  sofa  through  which  the  springs  displayed  themselves 


Early  Literary  Efforts  233 

with  painful  distinctness,  when  suddenly  two  ladies  came 
in — Mrs.  Meriwether  and  Mrs.  Ashurst. 

"Did  you  hear  the  news  about  Mary  Clements?"  asked 
one. 

"About  her  marriage?" 

"Yes.  They  say  she  is  about  to  disgrace  herself  and  her 
family  by  marrying  her  father's  overseer." 

"Impossible !" 

"That's  what  they  say." 

"Well,  he  can't  be  much  of  a  man  to  drag  a  girl  down 
like  that." 

"Hearing  all  this,  Jones  folded  up  the  paper  he  had  been 
reading,  placed  it  carefully  away  in  his  pocket,  and  rode 
home.  His  mind  was  made  up.  He  would  bring  no  dis 
grace  on  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had  been  foolish ;  he 
had  been  mistaken ;  he  had  committed  an  error.  No  wom 
an  claiming  him  as  husband  should  ever  say  that  he  had 
disgraced  her,  least  of  all  the  fair,  proud  girl  who  in  her 
queenly  way  had  so  often  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  His 
duty  was  plain.  In  this  mood  he  went  home,  and  in  this 
mood  the  next  day  he  sought  out  the  Judge.  He  was  met  in 
the  hallway  by  the  Judge's  wife.  She  was  brisk  in  her 
manners  and  brusque  with  her  tongue. 

"I  have  heard  some  strange  rumors  about  you  and  Mary 
lately,  John.  The  idea  has  somehow  got  abroad  that  you 
are  to  marry  her.  This  is  very  embarrassing  to  us." 

"It  need  not  embarrass  you,  Mrs.  Clements,"  with  a  smile 
which  haunted  the  cold-blooded  little  woman  for  years 
afterwards.  "There  is  nothing  of  it." 

"O,  I  know  that,  John !"  with  an  emphasis  that  must  have 
cut  the  man  to  the  quick.  "I  know  that,  of  course,  but  the 
rumor  is  embarrassing  because  it  is  so  absurd." 

With  this  Jones  passed  into  the  library,  where  the  Judge 
was  poring  over  some  political  pamphlet,  and  Mrs.  Judge 
Clements  went  her  way.  She  knew  well  enough  that  her 
mission  had  been  accomplished.  Jones  was  slow  to  speak 
when  he  entered  the  presence  of  the  Judge.  He  had  known 
and  loved  the  old  man  for  years,  and  it  was  hard  to  part 
with  him. 

Jones  walked  to  the  library  window  and  looked  out  upon 


234  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  lawn  and  the  green  fields  beyond.  It  was  hard,  but  it 
must  be  done;  and  so  with  great  brevity  and  without  even 
remotely  hinting  at  the  cause,  he  gave  the  Judge  to  under 
stand  that  business  of  a  peculiar  kind  would  call  him  away 
for  a  few  weeks. 

"But  you  are  coming  back,  John  ?  We  couldn't  get  along 
without  you,  you  know." 

"I  cannot  tell,  sir.    I  am  in  deep  trouble.    I  cannot  tell." 

It  is  useless  to  give  the  details  of  the  conversation  be 
tween  Jones  and  Judge  Clements.  I  have  them  only  by 
hearsay.  It  is  known,  however,  that  when  Jones  came  from 
the  library  he  looked  as  though  he  had  been  weeping,  and 
it  was  months  and  months  before  the  Judge  ever  crossed 
his  own  threshold. 

The  old  negro  who  held  Jones's  horse  while  he  was  talk 
ing  with  the  Judge  is  probably  the  only  person  now  living 
who  could  give  any  testimony  as  to  his  appearance  and  de 
meanor. 

"I  wuz  holdin'  un  de  hoss  jess  same  like  I  hoi'  enny 
udder  hoss,"  said  the  aged  darky  to  the  writer  hereof,  "an* 
Mars  John  he  come  outen  de  big  house  lookin'  like  stimpin' 
wuz  agwine  ter  happin,  en  shore  'nuff  it  did  happen.  He 
tuk  his  fiddle  offn  de  groun'  whar  I'd  laid  it  an'  called  his 
dog  outen  de  yard.  Den  he  cotch  me  by  de  han'  an'  shuk 
it  right  hearty  an'  said:  Tom,  ole  fellow,  I'm  gwine  'way. 
Look  arter  things  while  I'm  gone/  He  'peared  ter  me, 
boss,  like  he  wuz  sorter  dazed." 

Strapping  his  violin  case  to  the  saddle,  John  Jones 
mounted  his  horse,  spurred  the  spirited  animal  into  a  gal 
lop,  and  henceforth  those  who  had  known  him  so  well  knew 
him  only  as  a  memory.  He  paused  but  once.  Reaching 
the  brow  of  a  hill  that  overlooked  the  country  for  miles 
around,  he  turned  and  looked  back.  Upon  the  lawn  he  saw 
a  fair  young  girl  sauntering  along  swinging  her  straw  hat, 
while  waves  of  wind  rippled  over  the  ripening  grain  and 
swept  through  the  rustling  corn.  A  negro  was  singing  in 
the  fields  below,  and  the  melody,  plaintive  and  suggestive, 
floated  up  to  him.  It  was  his  last  glimpse  of  all  that  he 
loved  best.  He  turned  his  horse's  head  to  the  north.  His 
dog,  which  had  waited  for  him  in  the  road,  sprang  forward 
with  a  joyous  bark,  and  man  and  horse  and  dog  plunged 


Early  Literary  Efforts  235 

into  the  cool,  green  depths  of  the  wood.  A  little  cloud  of 
dust  rising  about  the  trees  marked  their  course  for  a  few 
moments,  but  even  this  frail  vestige  vanished  before  a  pass 
ing  breeze  and  with  it  the  last  trace  of  John  Jones. 

IV 

The  following  letter,  a  copy  of  which  I  have  been  per 
mitted  to  make  from  the  original,  will  explain  itself.  With 
the  single  exception  that  the  man  of  whom  I  have  been 
writing  was  not  named  Jones  (and  I  may  as  well  confess 
that  all  the  names  I  have  used  are  fictitious),  the  letter  is 
a  true  and  faithful  copy: 

"My  Dear  Sir:  My  duties  have  been  such  that  I  could 
not  conveniently  reply  to  your  letter  of  inquiry  at  once.  I 
knew  Captain  Jones  long  and  intimately,  both  before  and 
during  the  war.  He  has  been  with  me  in  nearly  all  my 
campaigns,  and  a  braver  soldier  or  a  more  chivalrous  gen 
tleman  never  lived.  He  told  me  his  history;  and  if  you  hap 
pen  to  be  related  to  the  lady  whom  he  loved  so  dearly,  you 
will  tell  her  for  me  that  his  last  thoughts  were  of  her.  I 
can  sympathize  with  you  most  heartily.  I  have  recently 
lost  a  dear  little  child,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  more 
thoroughly  appreciate  the  losses  of  others  than  ever  before. 
Captain  Jones  fell  while  leading  his  comrades  in  a  charge. 
He  died  the  death  of  a  young  soldier. 

"Yours  sincerely,  J.  E.  B.  STUART/' 

Miss  Mary  has  turned  her  hand  to  works  of  charity,  but 
it  must  be  a  pleasant  experience  to  her  to  dream  of  her  stal 
wart  young  lover  as  one  who  in  the  golden  days  of  the 
Confederacy's  immortal  youth  rode  through  the  greenwood 
side  by  sid'e  with  the  prince  of  Southern  cavaliers,  per 
chance  giving  his  sonorous  voice  to  swell  the  volume  of 
Stuart's  favorite  song: 

"Sweet  Evalina!     Dear  Evalina! 
My  love  for  you  will  never,  never  die." 

J.  C.  H. 


236  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

A  ROMANTIC  RASCAL1 
THE  STORY  OF  A  BRILLIANT  BOHEMIAN 

Colonel  Plimpton  and  His  Contemporaries — The  Experience  of  an 
Associate  Editor — John  Frazer's  Two  Visitors — A  Twin  Sister  of 
Sorrow — The  Life  and  Love  of  Jane  Chichester — The  Yellow 
Fever  Plague  of  1854  and  the  Horrors  of  the  September  Cyclone. 


On  the  night  of  the  nth  of  October,  1853,  Mr.  John 
Frazer,  associate  editor  of  the  Savannah  Daily  Pilot  and 
Expositor,  sat  in  the  sanctum  of  that  prosperous  and  in 
fluential  journal  brewing  a  pot  of  coffee  preparatory  to  in 
dulging  in  a  sumptuous  lunch  of  bread  and  cheese  and  cold 
ham.  To  all  appearances  the  hour  was  propitious,  for  Mr. 
Frazer  was  in  a  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  Forty  years  ago 
this  very  night,  according  to  a  well-remembered  family  tra 
dition,  he  had  been  ushered  into  the  world,  and  he  was 
celebrating  in  this  informal  and  inexpensive  manner  the 
anniversary  of  that  important  event. 

What  had  not  fortune  done  for  him?  Here  he  was  in 
the  prime  of  life,  so  to  speak,  married  to  the  best  woman 
the  sun  ever  shone  on,  with  four  promising  children  and 
a  comfortable  salary  of  twenty  dollars  a  week.  He  re 
membered,  moreover,  with  a  glow  of  pride  as  he  gazed  into 
the  flickering  grate  that  he  was  professionally  associated 
with  Col.  Ajex  Plimpton,  the  noted  political  writer  and 
party  leader.  And  in  those  days  this  fact  implied  a  good  deal. 

Journalism  in  Savannah — indeed,  throughout  the  coun 
try — was  vastly  different  in  1853  from  what  it  is  now. 
Papers  were  valued  as  party  organs  rather  than  as  vehicles 
of  the  latest  news.  It  was  preeminently  the  age  of  political 
discussion.  Party  feeling  ran  tumultuously  high,  and  the 
choicest  items  of  sensational  news  gave  way  before  the 
transcendent  importance  of  ponderous  polemical  essays  on 
the  state  of  the  country.  I  grieve  to  say  that  in  the  speci 
mens  of  this  literature  which  have  fallen  under  my  observa 
tion  serenity  of  expression,  argumentative  dignity,  and  equa- 

aHarris  was  associate  editor  of  the  Savannah  Morning  News 
from  1870  to  1876.  See  Part  I. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  237 

nimity  of  treatment  are  not  always  perfectly  maintained, 
and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  in  those  days  that  paper  was  most 
popular  with  the  reading  men  of  all  parties  whose  editor 
wielded  the  most  ferociously  personal  pen  and  oftenest  dis 
regarded  the  amenities  of  the  profession. 

I  regret  that  the  limits  of  this  brief  chronicle  will  not 
justify  me  in  quoting  in  full  the  short  but  sharp  contro 
versy  between  Major  Bogardtis,  of  the  Vade  Mecum,  and 
Judge  Fullalove,  of  the  Sentinel,  in  which  the  former  al 
luded  to  the  latter  as  "the  editor  of  a  scurrilous  and  unprin 
cipled  organ,  which,  like  a  Hessian  sutler,  is  always  found 
following  in  the  wake  of  those  who  carry  off  the  spoils." 
The  hostile  meeting  that  followed,  in  which  shotguns  at 
ten  paces  were  the  weapons  selected — the  rendezvous  at 
Screven's  Ferry,  where  Major  Bogardns  chivalrously  al 
lowed  his  adversary  the  choice  of  position — and  the  final 
amicable  and  honorable  adjustment  of  the  whole  matter 
upon  the  field,  as  well  as  the  triumphant  return  of  both  par 
ties  to  the  city,  are  still  so  well  remembered  that  I  need  do 
no  more  than  to  allude  to  them  here. 

The  asperities  of  political  journalism  had  even  led  Col. 
Ajex  Plimpton  to  seek  redress  upon  the  field  of  honor, 
where,  it  is  related,  he  cleverly  winged  his  man.  The  .Colo 
nel  was  a  prominent  and  influential  citizen,  and  his  paper, 
the  Pilot  and  Expositor,  deservedly  ranked  as  one  of  the 
foremost  and  most  efficient  organs  of  the  party  of  which 
he  was  a  leader. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Frazer 
was  somewhat  proud  of  his  association  with  the  Colonel. 
The  fact,  as  I  have  said,  implied  a  good  deal  more  than 
would  at  first  appear.  But  as  Colonel  Plimpton  devoted 
himself  exclusively  to  the  political  department,  the  duties 
of  Mr.  Frazer's  position  as  news  editor  and  local  and  ma 
rine  reporter  were  arduous  as  well  as  responsible. 

Sitting  before  the  fire,  Mr.  Frazer,  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
faithful  and  honest  nature,  remembered  his  responsibilities 
only  as  pleasures.  He  had  just  finished  and  sent  in  to  the 
compositors  a  most  elaborate  account  of  the  ceremonies  at 
tendant  upon  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  monu 
ment  to  Count  Pulaski.  Not  only  had  he  given  a  graphic 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

description  of  the  proceedings,  but  he  had  taken  down  an 
unusually  full  and  interesting  synopsis  of  the  oration  de 
livered  upon  the  occasion;  and  he  was  satisfied  in  his  own 
mind  that  he  had  gained  a  decided  victory  over  his  rivals 
of  the  Sentinel  and  Vade  Mecum. 

While  thus  engaged  in  brewing  his  coffee  and  indulging 
himself  in  the  felicity  of  enjoying  in  advance  the  certain 
defeat  of  his  brother  reporters,  Mr.  Frazer  suddenly  heard 
the  office  door  on  Bay  Street  open  and  close  again,  and  then 
the  slow  and  unsteady  step  of  some  one  ascending  the  stair 
way  that  led  from  the  counting  room  to  the  editorial  apart 
ment.  The  professional  mind  of  Mr.  Frazer  immediately 
led  him  to  suspect  that  the  person  toiling  up  the  stairs  was 
a  belated  advertiser  or,  more  probably,  the  vicegerent  of  a 
neighboring  saloon  armed  with  a  bowl  of  steaming  punch. 
If  it  was  regular  lemon  stew  now,  Mr.  Frazer  thought  it 
would  be  a  fitting  nectar  with  which  to  terminate  the  im 
promptu  celebration  of  his  natal  day.  At  that  moment  the 
door  of  the  sanctum  swung  widely  open,  and  upon  the 
threshold,  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  uncertain  light,  stood 
a  rather  handsome  young  man  apparently  in  a  hopeless 
state  of  intoxication.  Gazing  at  him  curiously  a  moment, 
Mr.  Frazer  was  of  the  opinion  that  he  had  never  enjoyed 
the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  his  visitor,  and  this  opin 
ion  was  verified  when  he  saluted  the  swaying  figure  in  his 
usual  hearty  manner  and  received  as  his  reply  only  one  of 
those  curiously  solemn  and  comically  vacuous  stares  begot 
ten  either  of  imbecility  or  of  drunkenness.  Mr.  Frazer, 
however,  was  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind  and  seemed  re 
solved  to  ignore  his  visitor's  apparent  want  of  courtesy. 

"O,  come  in,  Doogans !  You  haven't  forgotten  a  fellow, 
have  you?'*  said  he  with  a  great  affectation  of  familiarity  and 
facetiousness.  "Come  in,  will  you,  and  rest  yourself.  Here 
is  coffee  and  everything.  I  was  expecting  you,  you  know." 

Still  the  unsteady  figure  swayed  to  and  fro  at  the  door 
and  seemed  to  be  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or  to  retire. 

"O,  come  now,  Doogans,"  continued  Mr.  Frazer  with 
great  apparent  hilarity;  "this  won't  do,  you  know.  This 
isn't  at  all  like  you.  This  show  of  reserve  doesn't  sit  well 
on  you.  You  can't  play  off  on  me,  you  know.  Bygones 


Early  Literary  Efforts  239 

must  be  bygones  between  us,  old  fellow.  Let  us  hear  from 
you  at  your  earliest  convenience." 

Whether  this  unlooked-for  show  of  warmth  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Frazer  had  any  effect  upon  the  untimely  visitor,  or 
whether  it  occurred  to  him  to  accept  the  invitation  thus  ex 
tended  as  the  safest  refuge  from  the  police  in  his  belated 
condition,  it  is  impossible  to  say;  but  abjured  in  this  strange 
and  unexpected  manner,  strange  and  unexpected  even  to 
the  muddled  mind  of  an  inebriate,  the  visitor,  not  without 
a  faint  show  of  embarrassment,  staggered  to  the  chair 
which  Mr.  Frazer's  half  humorous  hospitality  had  placed 
for  him  and  deposited  himself  therein  in  a  state  of  limp 
helplessness  truly  wonderful  to  contemplate. 

Mr.  Frazer  may  have  been  somewhat  nonplused  at  the 
result  of  his  effusive  hospitality,  but  he  was  by  no  means 
displeased.  He  was  waiting  to  correct  the  proof  sheets  of 
his  very  vigorous  account  of  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone 
of  the  Pulaski  monument,  and  he  had  been  rather  lonely, 
albeit  his  loneliness  had  not  assumed  the  irksomeness  of 
ennui.  On  the  contrary,  his  thoughts  had  been  of  an  ex 
ceedingly  pleasant  character.  The  world  owed  him  nothing 
that  it  had  not  repaid  with  tenfold  interest,  and  he  had  no 
occasion  to  chew  the  cud  of  bitter  fancy.  He  simply  felt  that 
desire  for  companionship  common  to  men  of  his  genial  and 
exuberant  nature,  and  he  looked  down  upon  the  inert  mass 
of  manhood  before  him  with  something  very  like  a  glow  of 
satisfaction. 

Here  was  an  antidote  to  his  loneliness.  Here  was  a  com 
panion  who  would  not  interfere  with  his  tempting  basket 
of  unopened  exchanges.  Pie  was  one  whose  tactiturnity 
seemed  equal  to  most  trying  situations.  Mr.  Frazer  rather 
rejoiced.  There  was  something  novel  and  refreshing  in 
thus  being  brought  in  contact  with  a  person  in  apparent 
good  health  who  utterly  refused  to  employ  any  diplomacy 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  possession  of  the' latest  New 
York  papers  and  who  scorned  to  request  that  a  paragraph 
personally  hostile  to  Jones  or  Smith  be  inserted  in  the  edi 
torial  columns  of  the  Pilot  and  Expositor.  It  was  a  new 
experience  to  the  associate  editor,  and  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  he  gloated  over  it  with  a  heathen  enjoyment  peculiar 
to  himself. 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Suddenly  Mr.  Frazer  bethought  him  of  his  coffee,  and 
he  proceeded  to  "settle"  it  with  that  confidence  in  the  re 
sult,  and  awkwardness  in  employing  the  means  to  bring  it 
about,  characteristic  of  men  who  attempt  to  imitate  their 
wives.  Taking  the  boiling  beverage  from  the  fire,  he  sol 
emnly  poured  a  small  quantity  in  a  cup  and  then  poured  it 
back,  as  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Frazer  do  thousands  of  times,  all 
the  while  keeping  up  a  running  fire  of  conversation  with  the 
quiet  individual  whom  he  affected  to  regard  as  his  guest. 
It  soon  became  evident  that  Mr.  Frazer's  awkwardness  was 
more  apparent  than  real.  The  aroma  of  the  coffee  filled 
the  room  with  its  pleasant  and  tantalizing  fragrance,  and  he 
at  once  set  about  arranging  the  preliminaries  of  his  lunch. 

"Another  moment,  Doogans,"  said  Mr.  Frazer,  cutting 
his  cheese  into  dainty  little  slices;  "another  moment,  and 
you  would  have  been  too  late.  Promptness  is  the  result  of 
system,  and  system  we  must  have.  There's  nothing  like  sys 
tem,  Doogans." 

Here  the  office  boy  brought  Mr.  Frazer  the  proof  slips 
for  which  he  had  been  waiting. 

"Thanks,  Johnny.  Ah !  by  the  by,  allow  me  to  introduce 
you  to  our  friend  Doogans.  You  remember  Doogans,  of 
course." 

Johnny  retreated  precipitately  from  the  sanctum  with  a 
broad  grin  of  embarrassment  on  his  face  and  subsequently 
informed  the  foreman  of  the  composing  room  that  Mr. 
Frazer  was  "a-feedhV  an'  a-chaffin'  some  more  o'  them 
tramps."  Whereupon  the  foreman,  who  was  flourishing  a 
very  large  and  very  wet  sponge,  leaned  upon  the  imposing 
stone  and  remarked  with  sententious  acerbity  that  "if  every 
body  had  as  big  a  heart  and  sent  in  as  clean  copy  as  John 
Frazer  there'd  be  a  d— d  sight  less  trouble  in  this  world." 

This  and  various  other  comments  upon  the  peculiarities 
of  Mr.  Frazer's  character  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  that 
gentleman,  and  he  went  on  preparing  his  lunch.  He  sliced 
his  bread  and  cheese  and  then  proceeded  to  adjust  his  coffee 
pot  in  a  position  where  the  beverage  would  not  grow^cold. 

"You  see,  Doogans,"  addressing  in  a  half  apologetic  tone 
the  person  whom  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  he  had  thus 
facetiously  christened,  "it  is  business  before  pleasure  with 
us.  We  are  all  more  or  less  called  upon  to  respond  to  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  241 

stern  demands  of  duty;  and  the  more  cheerfully  it  is  done, 
the  better  for  the  producer  as  well  as  the  consumer.  That 
is  political  economy,  Doogans.  Owing  to  a  previous  en 
gagement,"  flourishing  the  proof  slips  toward  the  voiceless 
figure,  "I  am  compelled  to  postpone  for  a  few  moments  the 
discussion  of  these  viands." 

With  this  Mr.  Frazer  complacently  betook  himself  to 
reading  the  proofs  of  his  account  of  the  corner-stone  cere 
monial.  The  monotony  attendant  upon  the  satisfactory  ac 
complishment  of  this  professional  duty  was  varied  only  by 
the  quick  scratching  of  Mr.  Frazer's  pencil  as  he  fell  upon 
some  unlucky  typographical  blunder  or  swooped  eagerly 
down  upon  some  verbal  inaccuracy.  He  had  just  reached 
a  point  in  his  excellent  synopsis  of  the  oration  delivered 
upon  the  occasion  where  an  eloquent  comparison  was  made 
between  the  services  of  Lafayette  and  those  of  Count 
Kasimer  Pulaski,  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  his  mind — 
oddly  enough,  as  he  remembered  afterwards — that  it  would 
be  a  terrible  thing  if  his  boy  Jack  should  ever  come  to  the 
condition  of  the  person  who  had  that  night  strayed  into  the 
sanctum.  Such  an  idea  was  too  absurd  to  entertain ;  but 
if  it  should  come  to  pass,  he  thought,  his  heart  would  be 
filled  with  undying  gratitude  to  any  one  who  would  show 
his  boy  any  kindness  or  consideration. 

His  mind  thus  unaccountably  diverted  from  the  task  to 
which  he  had  set  himself,  Mr.  Frazer  turned  in  his  chair  to 
take  a  closer  look  at  the  stranger.  That  individual  was  sit 
ting  in  pretty  much  the  same  position  he  had  at  first  as 
sumed,  but  his  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  the  light  now  shone 
directly  in  his  face.  Mr.  Frazer,  gazing  with  some  interest 
at  the  drooping  figure  before  him,  thought  he  had  never 
seen  a  finer  face  than  that  which  was  here  passively  up 
turned  to  the  light.  Beyond  a  faint  flush  upon  the  cheeks, 
there  was  no  sign  of  intoxication,  and  the  clear-cut,  hand 
some  features  were  marred  by  no  tokens  of  dissipation. 
The  complexion  was  fresh  and' fair,  and  the  forehead  high 
and  intellectual.  Mr.  Frazer  was  a  firm  believer  in  physi 
ognomy,  and  he  at  once  concluded  that  his  strange  visitor, 
whatever  might  be  his  present  condition  and  circumstances, 
had  been  born  and  bred  a  gentleman.  Every  feature,  from 
the  perfectly  developed  head  to  the  small,  symmetrical  hands 
16 


242  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

and  shapely  feet,  bore  the  unmistakable  evidences  of  culture 
and  refinement.  There  were  slight,  very  slight  streaks  of 
gray  in  the  stranger's  closely  curling  hair,  but  to  the  good 
Samaritan  sitting  on  the  other  side  he  appeared  to  be  a  man 
of  perhaps  thirty-two  years  of  age. 

When  Mr.  Frazer  turned  again  to  his  work,  the  levity 
with  which  he  had  greeted  his  visitor  had  vanished;  and 
as  his  pencil  with  trained  facility  picked  out  the  various 
errors  in  the  proof,  his  features  settled  into  an  expression 
of  serious  concern.  It  had  been  his  intention  to  have  the 
man  carried  to  the  pressroom,  where  upon  the  bundles  of 
paper  stored  therein  he  might  find  more  comfortable  accom 
modations  than  the  police  barracks  would  afford;  but  on 
second  thought  he  would  let  him  remain  in  the  editorial 
room.  And  so  when  Mr.  Frazer  had  finished  his  proofs 
he  set  about  making  his  guest  comfortable.  With  some  dif 
ficulty  he  lifted  the  limp  body  from  the  chair  and  half  car 
ried,  half  dragged  it  across  the  room  to  the  sofa,  whereon 
during  the  long,  hot  days  of  summer  Col.  Ajex  Plimpton, 
the  editor,  was  in  the  habit  of  resting  from  his  arduous 
labors.  Placing  the  helpless  man  in  a  comfortable  position, 
Mr.  Frazer  carefully  placed  over  him  the  shawl  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  and  again  subjected  the  calm 
and  impressive  outline  of  the  stranger's  features  to  a  curi 
ous  examination.  Apparently  this  closer  scrutiny  satisfied 
him,  for  he  turned  from  it  with  a  little  sigh  of  pity  and  com 
miseration. 

Mr.  Frazer's  coffee  was  still  smoking  by  the  fire,  and  his 
economical  lunch  lay  spread  out  upon  his  desk.  These  he 
attacked  with  a  zest  peculiar  to  the  profession  and  with  a 
fearlessness  that  spoke  volumes  for  his  powers  of  digestion. 
Having  disposed  of  these  things,  Mr.  Frazer  buttoned  his 
coat  closely  around  his  throat,  turned  off  the  gas,  walked 
thoughtfully  downstairs,  and  plunged  into  the  cold,  foggy 
air. 

ii 

The  immemorial  policeman,  with  whom  Mr.  Frazer  had 
often  endeavored  to  cultivate  relations  of  a  confidential 
character  in  the  hope  of  ultimately  coaxing  a  belated  item 
from  his  inner  consciousness,  stood  in  his  accustomed  place 


Early  Literary  Efforts  243 

on  the  corner,  a  statuesque  representation  of  eternal  vigi 
lance.  Mr.  Frazer  intended  to  ply  the  policeman  with  the 
usual  query,  but  just  at  that  moment  a  woman,  going  at  a 
rapid  walk,  turned  the  corner  and  jostled  roughly  against 
the  somber  official.  Seeing  what  manner  of  man  it  was  she 
had  thus  unintentionally  disturbed,  she  stopped. 

"By  George,"  thought  Mr.  Frazer,  "here's  a  lively  item !" 

But  he  was  mistaken.  Approaching  the  policeman  near 
enough  to  place  her  hand — a  pretty  little  hand,  as  Mr. 
Frazer  could  see — upon  his  damp,  shaggy  sleeve,  in  a  sup 
plicating  manner  she  said,  "Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  me  where 
I  may  get  lodging  for  the  night?"  a  quaver  born  of  fright 
and  distress  in  her  voice.  "I  have  tried  at  all  of  the  hotels, 
but  what  is  one  to  do  without  money?  O  sir,  if  you  could 
only  tell  me  where  I  might  get  out  of  the  streets!  Have 
you  no  dear  wife  at  home?" 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  this  appeal,  delivered  with  all  the 
nervous  eloquence  of  despair,  in  no  wise  affected  the  morose- 
looking  policeman ;  albeit  there  was  nothing  in  the  pale  and 
worn  features  of  the  woman  or  in  her  shabby,  genteel  at 
tire  to  excite  his  suspicion.  With  him  the  story  was  an  old 
one  with  some  variations;  he  had  heard  it  hundreds  of 
times.  But  before  he  could  reply  in  the  cynical  style  of  his 
class  Mr.  Frazer  stepped  briskly  up.  "Madam,"  said  he 
in  a  tone  that  suppressed  the  sarcastic  smile  of  the  other 
wise  austere  official,  "7  have  a  wife  at  home,  a  wife  and  two 
darling  little  daughters.  Will  you  come  with  me  and  see 
them?" 

The  woman  turned  toward  the  kindly  voice  and  saw  the 
genial,  honest  face  of  the  journalist.  "O  sir!"  said  she 
and  then  fell  to  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  The 
staid  policeman  moved  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other 
and  finally  walked  off  a  little  way.  He  was  evidently  un 
used  to  such  scenes.  When  he  turned  again,  John  Frazer, 
with  the  woman  clinging  to  his  arm  and  still  weeping,  was 
going  up  the  street  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  The  police 
man  paused  as  he  looked  after  them,  and  the  small  evi 
dences  of  feeling  called  into  life  by  the  woman's  tears 
changed  suddenly  to  a  stare  of  blank  astonishment.  To  his 
practical  mind  this  singular  appeal  for  such  a  common 


244  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

charity  was,  as  he  inelegantly  but  pungently  expressed  it, 
"a  regular  put-up  job."  To  have  thought  otherwise  would 
have  been  to  seriously  impair  his  own  high  estimation  of 
his  official  integrity.  Hadn't  he  seen  trollops  before? 

"But  for  John  Frazer,  a  family  man,  to  be  a-totin'  of  'em 
around  at  this  time  o'  night !  Ding  my  hide  to  Jericho  and 
back  ag'in  if  7  ever  thought  that  of  Frazer/'  said  the  worthy 
policeman.  "It'll  do  mighty  well  for  some  o'  them  young 
fellows  to  hook  on  to  them  kind  o'  wimmen ;  but  old  Fraze, 
blamed  if  it  don't  head  me !" 

The  idea  that  Mr.  Frazer's  purposes  were  wholly  benevo 
lent  never  once  entered  the  cynical  mind  of  the  policeman, 
and  the  incongruous  proceeding  of  the  usually  sedate  news 
paper  man  puzzled  him  to  a  degree.  Thus  mystified,  the 
officer  followed  the  fast-receding  couple,  and  this  is  what 
he  saw:  He  saw  Mr.  Frazer  and  his  companion  walking 
briskly  through  the  fog  and  heard  their  voices  as  they  passed 
up  the  lonely  street.  He  saw  them  turn  sharply  to  the  right 
and  pass  through  the  shadows  of  one  of  the  miniature 
parks,  saw  them  emerge  on  the  other  side,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  more  heard  them  enter  Mr.  Frazer's  house.  Then  the 
vigilant  policeman  saw  no  more ;  but  he  remained  for  a  long 
time  leaning  against  a  live  oak  in  the  little  park  apparently 
lost  in  thought.  The  next  day  he  detailed  the  circumstances 
to  a  few  of  his  comrades,  and  when  one  of  them  made  some 
coarse  remark  the  narrator  bristled  up  directly:  "D — n  it 
all,  boys,  can't  nobody  never  do  any  good?  Brash  judg 
ments  won't  hold  water.  The  man  better'n  old  Frazer  ain't 
never  been  chiseled  outen  the  original  mud,  in  my  opinion." 

Perhaps  the  boys  thus  appealed  to  forebore  to  worry  the 
oldest  member  of  the  force ;  but  it  is  certain  there  was  no 
more  untimely  joking,  and  thereafter  when  any  of  the  men 
met  Mr.  Frazer  they  saluted  him  with  grave  deference. 

in 

Mrs.  Frazer  had  not  retired  when  her  husband  came  in. 
Even  Jack,  aged  nine  years,  had  made  a  feeble  attempt  to 
sit  up  until  his  father  should  come  home.  It  was  a  restful, 
satisfying  picture:  the  pleasant-looking  matron  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms,  Jack  at  his  mother's  feet,  his  fair  curls 
thrown  into  a  confused  mass  and  his  fresh  young  face  glow- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  245 

ing  with  health  and  strength,  the  little  girls  on  the  trundle- 
bed,  the  busy  clock  upon  the  mantel.  Even  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  furniture,  which  was  none  of  the  finest,  sug 
gested  repose.  The  sight  of  it  had  often  repaid  John  Frazer 
for  many  a  weary  hour  at  his  desk,  and  now  as  he  crossed 
the  threshold  of  his  little  kingdom  he  felt  more  than  ever 
thankful  that  he  was  blessed  with  a  home.  It  was  Mr. 
Frazer's  custom  to  wear  a  happy,  smiling  face  within  the 
precincts  of  his  domiciliary  domain;  but  to-night,  instead 
of  saluting  his  wife  in  his  usual  buoyant  and  hearty  man 
ner,  he  walked  to  the  fireplace,  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the 
mantel,  and  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  glowing  grate. 
He  did  not  know  this  strange  woman  waiting  in  the  pas 
sage  way,  and  yet  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He  was  certain  she 
stood  desperately  in  need  of  the  commonest  offices  of 
charity,  and  yet  suppose — 

"Mattie,"  said  Mr.  Frazer  finally,  "I  have  brought  home 
a  poor  woman  whom  I  found  wandering  about  in  the 
streets." 

Mrs.  Frazer's  look  of  surprise  relapsed  into  one  of 
thoughtfulness  as  her  husband  related  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  had  met  the  stranger ;  but  when  he  had  con 
cluded,  an  amused  smile  crept  into  her  motherly  face. 
"Upon  my  word,  John,"  with  a  little  laugh,  "there  never 
was  such  a  man/'  This  expression  had  served  her  in  more 
than  one  emergency.  "I  told  Mrs.  Bagley  this  afternoon 
that  I  wouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  to  see  you  bring  a  woman 
home  some  day." 

Mr.  Frazer  was  a  little  embarrassed  as  well  as  perplexed, 
but  as  his  wife  continued  he  caught  a  quiver  of  sympathy  in 
her  voice  which  he  well  understood. 

"Is  she  very  needy  and  forlorn,  John?" 

"Indeed  she  is,  my  dear ;  a  woman  for  you  to  pity.  Shall 
I  ask  her  in  here?" 

"Of  course,  John.     What  else  could  you  do?" 

And  so  the  strange  woman  was  introduced  into  John 
Frazer's  family  circle.  He  had  often  confidently  asserted 
to  several  of  his  more  intimate  acquaintances  that  his  wife's 
judgment  in  regard  to  other  women  was  unerring,  and  he 
narrowly  watched  her  now,  ready  to  abide  by  her  decision ; 


246  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

but  neither  by  word  nor  look  nor  sign  did  Mrs.  Frazer  inti 
mate  that  she  suspected  either  the  calling  or  the  character 
of  the  friendless  woman  thus  fortuitously  brought  to  her 
door.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Frazer  saw  the  expression  of 
sympathy  on  his  wife's  face  deepen  into  one  of  actual  solici 
tude  as  her  quick  glance  took  in  the  pale,  unattractive  fea 
tures,  the  drooping  form,  and  frayed  garments  of  the  stran 
ger.  It  was  a  pitiable  sight  indeed,  and  the  Frazers  often 
recalled  it  years  afterwards. 

As  his  wife  bustled  about  the  room  in  the  warmth  of  her 
hospitality  Mr.  Frazer  related  with  considerable  dramatic 
power  and  a  good  deal  of  humorous  exaggeration  his  ad 
venture  with  the  drunken  man  in  the  office  of  the  Pilot  and 
Expositor.  The  woman  listened  with  an  air  of  languid  in 
difference  until  he  came  to  describe  the  appearance  of  his 
comical  visitor,  when  Mr.  Frazer  observed  her  listless  air 
change  to  one  of  eager  interest. 

"I  called  him  Doogans,"  the  good-humored  editor  was 
saying,  "for  want  of  a  better  name.  He  is  a  young  fellow, 
too,  not  more  than  thirty-two  or  three,  I  should  judge.  He 
wore  a  dark  felt  hat  and  a  drab  coat,  and  for  all  his  drunk 
enness  he  is  as  handsome  a  vagabond  as  ever  'I  laid  eyes 
on." 

Mr.  Frazer  paused  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  woman. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh  that  seemed  to 
dissipate  every  vestige  of  the  eager  expectation  in  her  face. 

But  the  cheerfulness  of  the  Frazers  was  infectious.  Jack 
had  forsaken  the  floor  for  his  father's  lap;  the  baby,  wide 
awake,  cooed  and  laughed  at  the  stranger,  while  the  moth 
er's  face  glowed  with  sympathetic  happiness.  Under  this 
combination  of  genial  influences  the  woman's  reserve  rapid 
ly  melted  away. 

"I  haven't  seen  anything  like  this,"  said  she  finally  with 
a  curious  smile  of  embarrassment,  "since  I  was  a  girl." 
Then  after  a  pause:  "I  think  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am  to 
night." 

And  so  sitting  in  that  cozy  little  room,  completely  sur 
rounded  by  the  evidences  of  comfort  and  happiness,  Jane 
Chichester  told  the  story  of  her  life  as  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  tell  it.  She  was  following  her  husband.  She  had  fol- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  247 

lowed  him  around  the  world,  from  Virginia  to  New  York, 
to  San  Francisco,  to  London,  to  Australia,  to  New  Orleans, 
and  now  to  Savannah.  It  was  plain  to  her  listeners  that  she 
had  been  wantonly  deserted  by  the  man  she  so  faithfully 
loved,  but  throughout  her  narrative  she  never  intimated  such 
a  thing.  She  had  frequently  endeavored  to  effect  a  recon 
ciliation  with  her  husband,  but  had  always  been  met  with 
cruel  rebuffs ;  and  yet  in  all  she  said  there  was  a  vague  but 
strong  hope  that  she  might  win  him  back.  Her  available 
means  were  exhausted,  but  this  would  be  remedied  as  soon 
as  she  could  communicate  with  her  friends  in  Virginia. 

Ah,  how  eloquently  she  described  her  weary  journeyings 
in  the  wake  of  the  erratic  vagabond  whom  she  called  her 
husband!  With  what  supreme  patience  she  clung  to  her 
first  love  !  And  yet  in  the  simple  terseness  of  her  story  there 
was  an  underlying  hint,  an  indefinable  intimation,  that  she 
was  endeavoring  to  hide  even  from  herself  the  pathetic  hope 
lessness  of  her  wanderings.  She  spoke  well  and  rapidly, 
but  in  the  well-modulated  tone  of  her  voice  there  was  an 
indescribable  inflection  -of  utter  grief  and  sorrow  that  was 
more  eloquent  than  her  words. 

It  was  wholly  a  new  experience  to  Mr.  Frazer,  and  for 
once,  be  it  said,  his  professional  mind  did  not  recognize  in 
the  particulars  of  this  poor  woman's  history  the  ground 
work  of  a  highly  wrought  sensational  article  for  his  paper. 
Such  articles  were  uncommon  in  1853,  but  they  were  by  no 
means  unknown.  In  the  street  or  in  the  office  Mr.  Frazer 
would  have  unhesitatingly  transferred  the  main  points  of 
the  story  he  had  just  heard  to  the  stray  envelopes  in  his 
pockets ;  but  sitting  here,  with  the  wan  reality  staring  him 
in  the  face,  he  did  not  once  remember  the  extraordinary 
disadvantage  at  which  he  had  his  rivals  of  the  Sentinel  and 
Vade  Mecum.  In  thus  relating  the  facts  it  may  be  that  I 
have  done  unintentional  injustice  to  the  memory  of  John 
Frazer  as  a  journalist ;  for,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  majority 
of  modern  reporters,  reading  this  brief  chronicle,  will  smile 
at  the  provincial  simplicity  and  utter  lack  of  enterprise  that 
led  a  journalist  at  any  period  of  the  world's  history  to  fore 
go  the  pleasure  of  distancing  his  brother  reporters.  And 
yet  so  it  is.  The  files  of  the  Pilot  and  Expositor  contain 
not  the  remotest  allusion  to  the  history  of  Jane  Chichester. 


248  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

It  was  decided  that  night  that  Mrs.  Chichester  should  re 
main  in  Mr.  Frazer's  family  until  such  time  as  she  could 
hear  from  her  friends  in  Virginia.  In  the  meantime  she 
would  take  charge  of  the  education  of  the  children  and 
thus  in  some  sort  repay  the  kindness  of  this  simple  couple. 
She  would  always  pray  to  the  good  God,  she  said,  to  bless 
the  dear  lady  and  gentleman  who  had  saved  her  from  the 
shame  and  misery  of  wandering  through  the  streets. 

"O,  you  cannot  tell,"  she  cried,  with  the  tears  running 
down  her  cheeks,  "what  a  blessed  thing  your  charity  has 
been  to  me.  If  the  prayers  of  a  wretched  and  miserable 
woman  can  avail  anything,  you  two  will  be  happy  all  the 
days  of  your  life." 

In  these  days  perhaps  this  would  be  a  very  small  thing 
to  say,  but  in  the  primeval  times  of  '53,  look  you,  it  fell 
upon  the  ears  of  the  Frazers  with  all  the  unction  and  fervor 
of  a  benediction. 

IV 

Mr.  Frazer  arose  early  enough  the  next  morning  to  dis 
cover  that  Mrs.  Chichester  had  already  succeeded  in  attract 
ing  the  children.  The  half-frightened  woman  of  the  night 
before  had  somehow  been  transformed  into  a  grave,  self- 
possessed,  gracefully  gentle  lady,  who,  save  when  talking 
to  Jack  or  the  little  girls,  showed  just  the  least  shadow  of 
reserve.  There  was  nothing  attractive  about  her  face,  Mr. 
Frazer  observed,  except  a  certain  indescribable  air  of  suffer 
ing  which  seemed  to  defy  analysis.  She  had  large  gray 
eyes,  pale  cheeks,  and  features  generally  commonplace.  Her 
one  attraction  was  the  presence  of  some  rare  occult  quality 
in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  pleasing  and  yet  baffling. 

Mr.  Frazer  dispatched  his  breakfast  with  little  ceremony. 
He  was  anxious  to  reach  his  office,  ostensibly  for  the  pur 
pose  of  getting  through  with  some  extra  work,  but  really 
to  see  whether  his  eccentric  guest  of  the  night  before  had 
carried  off  anything  valuable.  He  regretted  leaving  the 
stranger  where  he  might  have  free  access  to  the  counting- 
room,  and  now  he  was  anxious  to  see  the  result  of  what  he 
considered  his  ill-advised  hospitality. 

Reaching  the  office,  Mr.  Frazer  found  the  bookkeeper 
there  before  him.  Did  he  see  anything  of  a  strange  man 


Early  Literary  Efforts  249 

this  morning?  Yes,  he  did.  A  stranger  came  downstairs 
an  hour  ago,  inquired  the  name  of  the  night  editor,  and 
went  hurriedly  out.  Was  there  anything  missing?  Noth 
ing  whatever.  Mr.  Frazer  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief. 
The  fact  that  the  stranger  had  generously  refrained  from 
robbing  the  office  was  very  gratifying.  It  was  a  token,  or 
so  it  appeared  to  Mr.  Frazer,  that  his  kindness  had  not  been 
forgotten  nor  his  confidence  misplaced. 

In  another  hour  the  associate  editor  of  the  Pilot  and  Ex 
positor  was  engaged  in  the  pleasing  professional  pastime  of 
reading  the  accounts  of  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the 
Pulaski  monument  that  appeared  in  the  rival  papers  and 
mentally  comparing  them  with  his  own  report  of  the  same 
ceremony,  and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  this  mental 
criticism  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Frazer  was  by  no  means  dis 
paraging  to  his  own  production.  Indeed,  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  examine  the  articles  in  the  Sentinel  and  Vade 
Me  cum  on  the  occasion  referred  to,  and  it  is  but  simple  jus 
tice  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Frazer  to  say  that  his  report  is 
by  all  odds  the  best.  Its  style  is  florid,  but  not  excessively 
so,  and  the  descriptive  portions  are  minute  without  being 
wearisome.  Copious  extracts,  I  am  informed,  were  made 
from  the  article  by  the  country  press,  and  the  most  judicious 
of  Mr.  Frazer's  friends  were  loud  in  their  praises.  It  was, 
in  fact,  for  many  years  quite  a  feather  in  his  journalistic 
cap,  and  it  ultimately  became  his  custom  to  refer  to  the 
occasion  as  something  of  an  epoch.  "I  think  it  was  just 
before  I  beat  them  on  the  corner-stone  business,"  he  would 
say  when  endeavoring  to  fix  a  doubtful  date,  or  "It  was 
about  the  year  I  fixed  the  other  papers  on  the  Pulaski  monu 
ment  affair/' 

While  Mr.  Frazer  was  thus  engaged  in  admiring  his 
own  work  by  comparison,  a  gentleman  entered  the  sanctum ; 
but  so  absorbed  was  the  journalist  in  his  enjoyment  of  the 
defeat  of  his  rivals  that  he  did  not  immediately  raise  his 
head.  Visitors  were  common  enough ;  indeed,  they  were 
too  common,  Mr.  Frazer  sometimes  thought,  and  he  rarely 
paid  any  attention  to  those  who,  under  one  pretext  or  an 
other,  invaded  the  sanctum.  The  visitor  who  had  just  en 
tered,  however,  appeared  by  no  means  anxious  to  disturb 
Mr.  Frazer.  He  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  waiting  for  that 


250  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

gentleman  to  acknowledge  his  presence  and  then,  hat  in 
hand,  walked  over  to  a  large  bookcase  and  began  what  ap 
peared  to  be  an  attentive  examination  of  the  newspaper  files 
which  had  their  receptacle  therein.  But  he  was  not  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  this  examination  to  present  himself  to 
Mr.  Frazer  when  that  gentleman,  vaguely  oppressed  by  the 
presence  of  a  second  person  in  the  room,  raised  his  head 
from  a  third  perusal  of  his  corner-stone  report. 

"Mr.  Frazer,  I  suppose,"  said  the  visitor,  stepping  brisk 
ly  forward  and  offering  his  hand.  "We  have  met  before, 
Mr.  Frazer,  but  under  circumstances  not  calculated,  I  fear, 
to  commend  me  to  your  esteem." 

Mr.  Frazer,  holding  the  man's  hand,  endeavored  to  re 
member  when  and  where  he  had  met  this  distinguished- 
looking  stranger.  The  face  was  strangely  familiar,  and 
Mr.  Frazer  was  upon  the  point  of  apologizing  for  his  stupid 
memory  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  easy,  polished 
gentleman  standing  before  him,  with  a  self-deprecating 
smile  upon  his  handsome  features,  was  identical  with  the 
eccentric  inebriate  of  the  night  before.  The  associate  editor 
was  visibly  embarrassed.  In  the  simplicity  of  his  honest 
heart  he  regretted  that  he  had  ever  seen  this  elegant  gentle 
man  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  and  this  regret  was  intensified 
by  a  fear  on  Mr.  Frazer's  part  that  his  visitor  was  at  that 
moment  suffering  all  the  pangs  of  self-humiliation  and  mor 
tification.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  simple-minded 
editor  greatly  overrated  the  sensitiveness  of  the  stranger. 
Beyond  a  certain  air  of  self -deprecation,  there  was  nothing 
in  his  manner  to  justify  the  journalist's  embarrassment. 
Mr.  Frazer  had  a  vague  idea  that  this  was  the  case,  and  the 
fact  struck  him  unpleasantly. 

"I  dare  say,"  continued  the  visitor,  "you  took  me  for  a 
ruffian  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Frazer  with  an  earnestness  superinduced 
by  his  embarrassment.  "No,  I  did  not.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  glad  you  dropped  in." 

"I  was  very  stupid,  was  I  not?"  with  a  light,  infectious 
laugh.  "Well,  I  have  come  to  apologize  to  you,  Mr.  Frazer, 
and  to  thank  you  for  not  turning  me  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  police;  and  I  appreciate  your  kindness  the 
more  because  you  had  no  idea  you  were  extending  the  hos- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  251 

pitality  of  your  sanctum  to  a  brother  journalist.  My  name 
is  Vincent  Evelyn." 

Mr.  Frazer  had  often  heard  of  Vincent  Evelyn.  He  was 
known  among  newspaper  men  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
publicists  of  the  day  and  had  been  prominently  connected 
with  several  of  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  country.  His 
writings  were  picturesque  and  vivid  rather  than  argu 
mentative  or  solid,  and  he  had  the  happy  faculty,  rare  in 
those  days,  but  common  enough  now,  of  treating  the  most 
commonplace  subjects  in  an  interesting  manner.  By  a 
trick  of  the  quill  here  or  a  quaint  turn  of  expression  there 
he  could  render  piquant  the  stalest  facts,  and  his  style  of 
paragraphing  was  sparkling  and  pungent. 

Mr.  Frazer  was  very  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Evelyn,  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  in  the  half  hour's  conversation 
which  followed  he  entirely  lost  sight  of  the  distressing  pe 
culiarity  of  his  first  interview  with  that  gentleman.  It  was 
a  new  and  pleasing  experience  to  Mr.  Frazer,  this  familiar 
contact  with  one  who  had  seen  the  world  in  all  its  phases, 
and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  provincial  editor  was  thor 
oughly  fascinated  by  the  charming  manners  and  conversa 
tion  of  this  elegant  cosmopolitan,  who  talked  as  glibly  as 
the  brook  runs. 

A  few  hours  had  made  a  wonderful  change  in  the  per 
sonal  appearance  of  Mr.  Evelyn,  and  few  would  have 
recognized  the  stupefied  man  who  blindly  reeled  across  Mr. 
Frazer's  sanctum  the  night  before  in  the  polished,  well- 
bred  gentleman  who  was  now  gracefully  and  easily  discuss 
ing  art  and  literature.  If  Mr.  Evelyn  was  at  all  humiliated 
by  the  remembrance  of  last  night's  occurrence,  he  betrayed 
it  in  neither  word  nor  look  nor  time,  nor  did  it  ruffle  in  the 
least  his  consummate  self-possession.  Only  once  did  he 
allude  to  it,  and  then  he  explained  that,  having  just  landed 
from  the  ship  Ariel  and  suffering  with  tertian  ague,  he 
had  been  induced  to  forego  his  scruples.  "Liquor,"  he 
observed,  "absolutely  stupefies  me ;  but  you  will  find,  should 
we  come  to  be  better  acquainted,  Mr.  Frazer,  that  a  thirst 
for  it  is  not  one  of  mine  often  infirmities." 

At  last  Mr.  Evelyn  rose  to  go.  "When  would  I  be  most 
likely  to  find  Colonel  Plimpton  in  ?"  he  asked.  "I  have  let 
ters  for  him  from  some  of  his  old  editorial  acquaintances." 


252  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Mr.  Frazer  explained  that  Colonel  Plimpton  had  no  regu 
lar  office  hours  and  that  it  would  perhaps  be  as  well  for 
Mr.  Evelyn  to  seek  him  out  at  his  residence.  Whereupon 
the  man  of  letters  drew  forth  a  beautifully  embossed  note 
book,  carefully  entered  the  street  and  number  therein,  mur 
mured  his  thanks,  and  went  swiftly  down  the  stairs,  leav 
ing  Mr.  Frazer,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  in  something  of 
a  flutter.  He  had  been  charmed  and  fascinated  by  Mr.  Eve 
lyn  to  a  wonderful  degree,  and  yet,  now  that  he  was  left 
alone  to  coolly  and  critically  remember  all  that  had  been 
said,  he  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  seize  upon  anything 
particularly  impressive  or  brilliant  that  his  visitor  had  let 
fall  in  the  course  of  his  conversation.  To  be  sure,  Mr. 
Evelyn  had  taken  occasion  in  the  most  delicate  manner 
imaginable  to  feed  the  spark  of  vanity  that  lies  smolder 
ing  in  every  true  journalist's  bosom;  but  this  Mr.  Frazer 
did  not  take  into  account.  The  particular  quality  that  ren 
dered  Mr.  Evelyn's  conversation  charming  was  so  ethereally 
subtle  as  to  wholly  defy  any  attempt  at  analysis ;  and  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  remember  wherein  his  remarks  had 
been  either  original  or  striking.  Months  afterwards  the 
worthy  associate  editor  discovered  that  the  impossibility  of 
analyzing  the  fascination  of  Vincent  Evelyn  was  not  the 
only  perplexing  characteristic  of  that  gentleman. 

When  Mr.  Frazer  went  to  tea  that  evening — he  rarely 
dined  at  home — he  found  that  Mrs.  Chichester  had  already 
made  herself  an  indispensable  member  of  his  small  house 
hold. 

"She  is  such  a  perfect  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Frazer,  "and  so 
thoughtful.  The  children  love  her  already;  and  as  for 
baby — why,  she  can  quiet  baby  with  a  word." 

"She  is  better  than  a  storybook,"  said  Jack  with  boyish 
sententiousness.  And,  in  truth,  Jane  Chichester  deserved 
all  that  could  be  said  in  her  favor.  For  the  first  time  in 
years  she  found  herself  in  a  position  where  she  might  de 
velop  and  display  all  the  womanly  qualities  of  her  nature, 
where  she  might  in  some  sort  satisfy  her  continual  longings 
for  the  home  she  had  always  lacked;  and  so  without  any 
ulterior  object  or  design,  she  set  herself  to  improve  her  op 
portunities.  It  was  a  new  and  attractive  world  for  her,  this 
little  family  circle,  a  pasture  fair  and  boundless,  wherein 


Early  Literary  Efforts  253 

her  dwarfed  affections  might  grow  to  that  goodly  height 
and  breadth  and  strength  for  which  nature  had  designed 
them — a  place  of  refuge  wherein  her  poor  perturbed  spirit 
might  find  rest  and  comfort,  if  not  consolation. 

Perhaps  it  is  useless  to  burden  this  chronicle  with  the 
history  of  Jane  Chichester  subsequent  to  her  arrival  in 
Savannah.  As  she  began,  so  she  ended.  If  she  still  longed 
to  follow  the  vagabond  husband  whom  she  loved  with  such 
deathly  devotion,  it  was  not  apparent  to  those  around  her. 
She  made  friends  of  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 
The  Frazer  children  were  passionately  attached  to  her,  and 
she  in  return  devoted  herself  to  them  with  all  the  patience 
of  a  mother.  Under  her  gentle  influence  Jack  lost  much 
of  the  sullenness  of  temper  and  roughness  of  demeanor 
superinduced  by  the  associations  and  hard  discipline  of  Mr. 
McMannus's  select  school  for  boys,  and  all  the  children 
developed  in  a  wonderful  degree  those  qualities  of  heart 
and  mind  that  usually  lie  dormant  under  the  ferule  of  the 
pedagogue. 

In  the  fatal  year  that  followed  Jane  Chichester's  arrival 
in  Savannah,  that  year  of  pestilence  and  terror,  her  name 
was  made  memorable  in  hundreds  of  households.  It  was 
the  year  of  the  yellow  fever  plague,  and  in  the  homes  of  the 
rich  or  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor,  wherever  the  epidemic 
laid  its  grim  hand,  this  lonely  woman  appeared  as  an  angel 
of  mercy.  Strong  men,  made  weak  and  querulous  by  the 
fearful  disease,  fretted  for  her  presence  and  dropped  into 
slumber  beneath  the  soothing  touch  of  her  soft,  cool  fingers. 
Little  children  in  the  delirium  of  fever,  over  whom  she  leant 
in  her  manifold  ministrations,  looked  up  in  her  face  and 
smiled  and  called  her  mother.  There  are  men  who  still  re 
member  the  quiet,  unassuming  woman  who,  unbidden  and 
unannounced,  her  sad  face  shining  with  benign  pity, 
dropped  suddenly  into  stricken  households,  bringing  with 
her  comfort  and  consolation.  It  was  fitting  that  she,  the 
twin  sister  of  sorrow,  should  sup  with  the  mourners. 

v 

When  Mr.  Frazer  returned  to  the  office  on  the  day  after 
the  interview  with  Mr.  Vincent  Evelyn,  he  found  "a  note 
upon  his  desk  from  Col.  Ajex  Plimpton.  The  contents 


254  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

thereof  evidently  surprised  the  associate  editor,  for  after 
reading  it  hurriedly  through  he  placed  it  again  upon  his 
desk  and  stared  at  it.  Finally  he  took  the  letter  and  pro 
ceeded  to  read  it  aloud,  as  if  by  that  process  to  convince 
himself  that  there  was  no  delusion  about  the  matter,  and 
the  information  elicited  was  really  calculated  to  startle  Mr. 
Frazer.  He  was  informed  in  Colonel  Plimpton's  most  pom 
pous  style  that  Mr.  Vincent  Evelyn  had  been  engaged  to 
contribute  political  and  literary  articles  to  the  columns  of 
the  Pilot  and  Expositor  and  to  edit  these  departments. 
"This,  however/'  wrote  the  Colonel,  "will  in  no  wise  inter 
fere  with  your  duties.  I  feel  that  I  require  a  respite  from 
the  onerous  responsibilities  of  editing,  and  my  young  friend 
Evelyn  brings  strong  indorsements  of  his  capabilities  from 
men  whose  professional  opinions  I  regard  as  invaluable." 

Colonel  Plimpton,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  was  rather 
jaded.  Only  a  few  mornings  previous  to  Mr.  Evelyn's 
visit  his  lovely  daughter  Arabella,  who  was  thought  by  her 
friends  to  possess  a  decided  literary  turn,  had  severely 
criticized  one  of  her  father's  leading  editorials. 

"Why,  pa,"  exclaimed  this  pert  and  interesting  young 
lady,  "who  ever  heard  of  such  a  horrid  thing?  Why  have 
you  repeated  the  same  idea  three  times  in  the  same  article? 
It  is  positively  shocking !" 

Now,  although  the  Colonel  informed  his  daughter  that 
this  was  merely  a  cunning  rhetorical  device  to  give  em 
phasis  to  his  arguments  and  was  eminently  proper  under 
the  circumstances,  he  took  up  the  paper  when  Miss  Ara 
bella  had  gone  to  look  after  her  flowers  and  found  that  her 
criticism,  however  pertly  expressed,  was  by  no  means  un 
just.  And  so  when  Mr.  Evelyn  presented  himself,  indorsed 
by  journalists  whom  Colonel  Plimpton  knew  and  respected, 
he  was  at  once  given  a  position. 

Mr.  Frazer,  ignorant  of  the  motives  that  prompted  his 
employer  to  engage  the  services  of  the  person  who  had 
made  his  appearance  under  the  circumstances  so  well  cal 
culated  to  lead  to  distrust,  was  more  than  astonished  when, 
after  a  third  reading,  he  had  fully  mastered  the  contents  of 
Colonel  Plimpton's  note.  He  felt  aggrieved,  and  yet  he 
well  knew  that  he  had  no  real  grounds  of  grievance.  He 
felt  sure  of  his  own  position;  but  there  was  something  in 


Early  Literary  Efforts  255 

the  sudden  elevation  of  this  stranger  to  the  responsible 
position  of  political  editor  that  did  not  run  parallel  with 
John  Frazer's  ideas  of  what  was  just  and  proper.  Albeit, 
if  there  was  the  slightest  shadow  of  professional  envy  or 
jealousy  in  his  heart,  it  did  not  assume  a  tangible  shape 
either  then  or  afterwards.  It  was  his  custom  to  make  the 
best  of  everything,  and  when  he  folded  Colonel  Plimpton's 
note  he  folded  away  with  it  the  involuntary  mental  protest 
against  his  employer's  apparent  partiality  for  a  stranger 
and  looked  hopefully  forward  to  the  pleasant  days  he  would 
pass  in  the  society  of  the  genial  and  cultured  cosmopolitan 
who  was  henceforth  to  manage  the  Pilot  and  Expositor. 

And,  indeed,  they  were  pleasant  days.  The  seasons  sur 
rounded  themselves  with  plenty,  and  the  skies  were  propi 
tious.  Colonel  Plimpton's  journal  sprang  into  new  life 
and  prosperity.  The  interior  papers  were  loud  in  their 
praises  of  the  improved  tone  of  the  political  editorials,  and 
one  of  them,  the  Macon  Whig  and  Statesman,  an  opposi 
tion  organ,  in  a  spirit  of  Catholicism  for  which  its  editor 
was  loudly  applauded,  said :  "Colonel  Plimpton,  the  veteran 
editor  of  the  Savannah  Pilot  and  Expositor,  seems  to  have 
suddenly  regained  his  old-time  vigor  and  energy.  While 
we  deplore  his  political  course  as  calculated  to  undermine 
the  pillars  that  uphold  our  glorious  temple  of  liberty,  we 
cannot  but  bear  testimony  to  the  signal  ability  which  he 
brings  to  the  discussion  of  public  questions." 

No  subject  seemed  too  abstruse  for  Mr.  Evelyn.  He 
had  the  political  history  of  the  country  at  his  fingers'  ends ; 
and  while  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  he  relied  implicitly 
on  the  truth  of  his  own  conclusions,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  he  discussed  politics  from  Colonel  Plimpton's  stand 
point  with  a  fecundity  of  argument  and  partisan  fervor 
rarely  seen  even  in  those  days,  and  his  style  was  felicity 
itself.  Looking  over  the  files  of  the  Expositor  and  examin 
ing  Mr.  Evelyn's  editorials  with  the  dispassionate  and 
critical  eye  of  a  historian,  it  is  easy  to  discover  that  his 
arguments  were  merely  brilliantly  arranged  sophistries — 
sharp,  aggressive  epigrammatic  half-truths  that  are  always 
attractive  and  satisfactory  to  superficial  minds.  His  literary 
style,  however,  was  perfection  in  its  way.  I  doubt  if  his 


256  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

contemporaries,  engrossed  as  they  were  in  the  common 
places  of  political  campaigns,  realized  one-half  of  its  beau 
ties.  Scholarly  and  classical,  it  ran  through  the  dry,  dull 
discussions  incident  to  the  journalism  of  those  days  a  clear, 
rippling,  sparkling  stream,  picturesque  and  refreshing. 

To  say  that  Colonel  Plimpton  was  pleased  with  his  new 
editor  would  inadequately  convey  an  idea  of  the  expression 
of  triumph  that  sat  upon  the  Jovian  front  of  that  gentle 
man.  He  felt  that  nothing  short  of  downright  genius  could 
compel  Major  Bogardus,  the  editor  of  the  Vade  Mecinn 
and  the  Colonel's  deadliest  political  enemy,  to  admit,  as  he 
had  done  in  private  conversation,  that  the  Pilot  and  Ex 
positor  was  well  and. ably  edited;  howbeit  the  Major  still 
alluded  to  the  Colonel's  paper  in  print  as  "the  effete  organ 
of  a  rapidly  decaying  faction."  Under  these  circumstances 
it  is  not  strange  that  Colonel  Plimpton  gradually  left  the 
entire  management  to  Mr.  Evelyn,  contenting  himself  with 
an  occasional  suggestion.  He  preferred  the  ease  and  com 
fort  of  his  mansion  on  Liberty  Street  to  the  confusion  of 
the  printing  office  on  the  bay. 

The  brilliant  social  reunions  given  by  Colonel  Plimpton 
about  this  time  are  still  remembered  in  Savannah.  His 
drawing-rooms  were  frequented  by  the  most  notable  men 
and  women  of  the  day.  Hostile  politicians  and  rival  so 
ciety  cliques  met  here  on  common  ground  and  were  glad  of 
the  opportunity.  At  these  reunions  Mr.  Vincent  Evelyn 
was  always  a  welcome  and  not  an  infrequent  guest ;  indeed, 
his  presence  was  well-nigh  indispensable.  His  remarkable 
powers  of  conversation  and  his  versatile  gifts  as  a  musician 
gave  a  charm  and  a  luster  to  these  informal  assemblies  that 
they  would  otherwise  have  lacked. 

Miss  Arabella  Plimpton,  the  charming  young  hostess, 
with  a  dim  idea  that  caste  should  prevail  in  all  good  society, 
was  disposed  to  treat  her  father's  employee  somewhat  cava 
lierly  upon  his  first  appearance  as  her  guest;  but  as  this 
seemed  to  have  no  effect  at  all  upon  the  quiet,  well-bred 
hireling,  who  circulated  among  the  distinguished  people 
present  with  the  cool,  airy  self-possession  of  one  who  had 
frequented  the  salons  of  Europe,  she  determined  to  try  her 
unfledged  powers  of  sarcasm.  "O,  Mr.  Evelyn."  said  she, 


Early  Literary  Efforts  257 

"I  have  had  quite  an  angry  dispute  about  you.  Some  of 
my  friends  say  you  can't  sing,  and  others  say  you  won't 
if  you  can.  I  said  you  could  and  you  would." 

It  is  creditable  to  Miss  Arabella's  discernment  to  say 
that  even  before  she  had  concluded  her  rapidly  uttered  re 
mark  she  knew  she  would  fail  of  her  object,  but  she  per 
sisted  all  the  same. 

"Indeed,  Miss  Plimpton/'  responded  Mr.  Evelyn  gravely, 
"I  feel  highly  flattered  to  have  furnished  your  friends  a 
subject  for  discussion.  You  were  right.  In  my  poor  way 
I  do  sometimes  venture  to  sing;  and  if  I  can  afford  a  mo 
ment's  diversion  by  attempting  a  song,  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  do  so." 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Arabella  in  her  gayest  tone, 
turning  triumphantly  to  several  young  ladies.  "What  shall 
we  sing,  Mr.  Evelyn?  Something  pastoral,  for  instance? 
O  yes,  do  let  it  be  something  pastoral.  Will  you  favor  us 
with  'Annie  Laurie'?" 

"If  Miss  Plimpton  will  kindly  play  the  accompaniment." 

Surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  simpering  maidens,  Miss  Ara 
bella  began  a  showy  prelude,  while  Vincent  Evelyn,  some 
what  apart  from  the  rest,  leaned  gracefully  against  a  corner 
of  the  instrument  and  toyed  with  his  watch  guard  in  a 
grave  and  preoccupied  manner.  In  another  moment  there 
arose  upon  the  air  a  voice  so  marvelously  clear  and  sweet, 
so  unutterably  thrilling  and  tender  that  those  who  heard 
it  held  their  breaths  to  listen.  Miss  Plimpton  and  her 
young  friends  forgot  their  affectation.  Gray-headed  poli 
ticians  and  scheming  matrons  felt  themselves  lifted  once 
more  into  the  fair  fields  of  love  and  romance  as  the  song, 
redolent  with  passion  and  the  dewy  freshness  of  tears, 
smote  upon  the  night,  and  a  belated  vagabond,  ragged  and 
poverty-pinched,  crept  into  the  shadows  to  listen. 

Miss  Plimpton  was  electrified ;  but  when  she  arose  from 
the  piano,  penitent  and  ready  to  apologize  for  her  rudeness, 
Mr.  Evelyn  was  discussing  Voltaire  with  the  pretty  little 
wife  of  the  French  consul.  Subsequently,  however,  when 
the  company  had  dispersed,  the  charming  Arabella  apolo 
gized  to  her  album.  "I  never  shall  forgive  myself,"  she 
wrote,  "for  my  actions  to-night  toward  V.  E.  His  voice 
is  sweet  enough  to  lead  a  chorus  of  cherubim."  This  was 
17 


258  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

a  very  pretty  conceit  and  ought  to  have  eased  the  con 
science  of  the  fair  writer,  but  apparently  it  did  not;  for 
thereafter  the  servant  who  went  to  the  office  every  morn 
ing  for  Colonel  Plimpton's  favorite  exchanges  invariably 
placed  a  bouquet  of  fragrant  flowers  upon  Mr.  Evelyn's 
desk.  Perhaps  this  by  no  means  unusual  method  of  com 
bining  an  apology  with  the  most  delicate  flattery  was  grate 
ful  to  that  gentleman's  sensitive  soul.  Perhaps  his  keen 
perception  recognized  in  it  an  offering  at  a  far  more  sug 
gestive  shrine.  Howbeit,  it  is  certain  that  he  was  thence 
forth  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  household  of  Colonel  Plimp 
ton,  and  it  was  remarked  that  his  visits  were  usually  at  an 
hour  when  Miss  Arabella's  leisure  was  unencumbered  by 
other  callers. 

VI 

Thus  the  swift  seasons  passed.  Autumn  faded  into  win 
ter,  and  winter  blossomed  into  spring.  John  Frazer,  per 
forming  his  accustomed  duties  in  the  old  matter-of-fact 
way,  had  no  occasion  to  complain  of  the  contingency  that 
gave  Mr.  Evelyn  editorial  control  of  the  Pilot  and  Exposi 
tor.  He  found  in  the  young  journalist  the  same  genial  and 
attractive  qualities  that  had  characterized  him  from  the 
first.  There  was  no  jealousy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Erazer 
and  no  shadow  of  affectation  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Evelyn, 
and  the  two  men,  so  dissimilar  in  age  and  education,  so 
diverse  in  thoughts  and  habits,  became  warm  friends ;  albeit 
one  or  two  little  incidents  occurring  during  the  balmy 
spring  that  followed  Mr.  Evelyn's  connection  with  the  Ex 
positor  puzzled  Mr.  Frazer  not  a  little. 

Once  when  the  latter  gentleman  had  just  put  in  shape  a 
meager  telegraphic  marked  report  and  was  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  dreamily  admiring  the  handsome  profile  of  his 
companion,  who  was  standing  at  the  window  overlooking 
the  bay,  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  sharp  exclamation 
of  terror  from  Mr.  Evelyn  and  saw  him,  pale  and  agitated, 
seize  his  hat  and  leave  the  room.  Mr.  Frazer  thought  some 
accident  had  happened  on  the  street — a  child  run  over  by 
a  dray,  most  probably — and  as  these  occurrences  were  in 
his  line,  he  lost  no  time  in  occupying  the  point  of  observa 
tion  which  Mr.  Evelyn  had  just  vacated.  To  his  astonish- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  259 

ment,  there  was  not  a  vehicle  of  any  kind  in  sight.  Bay 
Street  lay  sleeping  in  the  ineffable  calm  of  an  afternoon  in 
May,  and  the  few  pedestrians  to  he  seen  moved  somnolent 
ly  through  the  mild,  sunny  weather.  On  the  opposite  side 
of  the  thoroughfare  Mr.  Frazer  recognized  Mrs.  Chichester 
walking  slowly  along,  with  Jack  capering  around  her. 
Waving  his  hand  at  her  by  way  of  salute  as  she  turned 
her  head,  he  returned  to  his  work.  That  night  Mr.  Evelyn 
was  found  at  his  desk  as  reticently  drunk  as  on  the  occa 
sion  of  his  first  appearance. 

Another  afternoon,  somewhat  later  in  the  summer,  after 
Mr.  Frazer  had  been  giving  Mr.  Evelyn  some  information 
respecting  the  yellow  fever,  which  had  made  its  appearance 
in  the  western  portion  of  the  city,  the  latter  rose  suddenly 
and  began  pacing  the  floor.  "There  are  strange  things  in 
this  world,  Frazer/'  said  he,  stopping  and  placing  his  hand 
on  that  gentleman's  shoulder,  "some  devilish  strange 
things.  Here  is  a  paragraph  I  have  just  cut  from  a  Cali 
fornia  paper/'  pulling  a  small  slip  from  his  vest  pocket 
and  reading  it  aloud :  "  'Charles  Clarence  Chichester,  the 
well-known  literary  vagabond,  who  figured  on  this  coast 
several  years  ago,  is  said  to  be  in  Savannah,  Ga.  Charles 
Clarence  Chichester  always  manages  to  keep  about  ten  days 
ahead  of  his  wife/  " 

A  sudden  light  dawned  upon  Mr.  Frazer. 

"I  know  Chichester  well,"  continued  Mr.  Evelyn,  "and 
I  think  he  is  a  much  better  man  than  the  person  who  wrote 
that  paragraph.  I  know  Chichester's  history.  Suppose, 
Frazer,"  in  an  ea^er  tone — "I  put  it  to  you  fairly — sup 
pose  you  had  married  a  woman  and  afterwards  discovered 
that  you  had  made  a  terrible  mistake  which,  if  persisted  in, 
would  make  miserable  her  life  and  yours.  What  would 
you  do?" 

"I  cannot  conceive  of  such  a  contingency/'  said  Mr. 
Frazer,  the  cold,  clear  tones  of  his  voice  contrasting 
strangely  with  those  of  his  companion ;  "but  it  seems  to 
me  that  a  man  of  honor" — 

"O,  I  know  what  you  would  say,  Frazer,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Evelvn  with  a  slight  gesture  of  impatience.  "A  man 
can  preach  glibly  enough  when  he's  safe  in  the  pulpit;  but 
put  him  in  a  back  pew,  and  he's  as  dumb  as  any  sinner  of 


260  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

them  all.    Good  God !"  with  a  sudden  heat.    "Human  nature 
must  have   its   own  way  sometimes.     However,"   after   a 
pause,  "this  man  Chichester  is  nothing  to  me.     I  shall  not 
fall  into  his  mistake.     I  suppose  you  have  heard,  Frazer, 
that  I  am  to  be  married  to  Miss  Plimpton  in  the  fall?" 
Mr.  Frazer  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.    "You?" 
"Yes.    Why  not?"  with  a  light,  embarrassed  laugh.    "Do 
I  look  like  a  man  who  would  make  a  choice  of  celibacy?" 

Mr.  Frazer  did  not  reply.  His  thoughts  were  with  the 
poor,  patient  little  woman  whom  he  had  rescued  from  the 
streets  and  made  a  member  of  his  household.  It  was  all 
perfectly  clear  to  him  now.  The  mystery  was  solved,  and 
yet  so  sudden  and  unexpected  was  the  revelation  that  he 
found  it  necessary  to  take  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air  before  he 
could  regain  his  wonted  composure.  In  the  meantime,  with 
every  desire  to  befriend  Jane  Chichester,  he  was  not  clear 
as  to  the  course  he  ought  to  pursue. 

VII 

Thus  the  hot  days  of  June  lapsed  into  the  sultriness  of 
July,  and  the  yellow  plague  crept  to  its  awful  culmination. 
No  one  who  survived  that  fearful  summer  of  1854  needs 
to  be  reminded  of  its  ghastly  characteristics.  Fierce  and 
blistering,  the  malignant  sun  beat  upon  the  city  during  the 
day,  withering  vegetation  and  parching  the  dusty  streets. 
During  the  night  the  foulest  exhalations  oozed  from  the 
pavements,  and  the  walls  of  the  houses  were  clammy  with 
deadly  dew.  Miasmatic  mists  rose  from  the  river  and 
spread  their  dark,  ominous  wings  above  the  smitten  town. 

Among  the  first  to  be  stricken  down  and  among  the  first 
to  recover  was  Miss  Arabella  Plimpton.  The  hopefulness 
of  youth  and  a  naturally  strong  constitution  did  for  her 
what  the  most  skillful  physician  might  fail  to  do.  With 
death  standing  sentinel  in  every  door  and  the  desolation 
of  grief  wasting  every  household,  the  feverish  summer 
drew  to  its  close. 

There  had  been  no  rain  for  several  weeks,  and  the  leaves 
of  the  trees  hung  crisp  and  lifeless,  untouched  by  the  faint 
est  breath  of  wind.  On  the  7th  of  September,  however, 
the  profound  calm  was  broken.  A  strong  northeasterly 
gale  sprang  up,  accompanied  by  a  heavy  fall  of  rain  which 


Early  Literary  Efforts  261 

continued  throughout  the  day.  During  the  afternoon  Mr, 
Evelyn  entered  the  sanctum  drenched  to  the  skin  and  evi 
dently  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  His  actions  were  so 
peculiar  that  Mr.  Frazer  at  once  divined  that  his  associate 
was  in  the  delirium  of  fever,  and  so  it  proved.  It  was  only 
after  much  difficulty  that  he  could  be  induced  to  lie  upon 
the  sofa ;  but  once  there,  he  was  as  quiet  as  a  little  child,  and 
it  soon  became  apparent  that  the  plague  had  already  accom 
plished  its  terrible  end,  so  far  as  Mr.  Evelyn  was  con 
cerned.  The  brilliancy  faded  from  his  eyes,  and  the  flush 
died  out  of  his  face,  and  before  Mr.  Frazer  could  fetch  a 
physician — before  he  could  summon  any  assistance,  in  fact 
— Vincent  Evelyn  was  dead. 

All  through  that  night  the  storm  raged,  culminating  on 
the  8th  in  one  of  the  most  violent  cyclones  that  ever  swept 
over  the  South.  It  was  a  fearful  experience  to  the  stricken 
citizens  of  Savannah.  Within  they  were  confronted  by  the 
horrors  of  pestilence  and  death,  without  by  the  terrors  of 
the  hurricane.  Thus  with  sudden  and  uncertain  intervals 
of  calm  the  dismal  day  wore  to  its  close.  In  a  room  adjoin 
ing  the  sanctum,  inclosed  in  a  neat  burial  case  furnished 
by  Mr.  Frazer,  lay  all  that  was  earthly  of  Vincent  Evelyn, 
and  near  by,  with  her  head  bowed  down  and  her  long  black 
hair  drenched  and  blown  loose,  sat  Jane  Chichester,  faith 
ful  unto  the  last. 

As  the  heavy  dusk  gathered  in  the  west  and  slowly  set 
tled  over  the  storm-smitten  earth,  Mr.  Frazer  heard  a  car 
riage  drive  to  the  office  door.  Then  he  heard  the  familiar 
voice  of  Col.  Ajex  Plimpton,  and  in  a  moment  that  gentle 
man  entered  the  room,  with  his  daughter  clinging  to  his 
arm.  He  was  quite  broken  down,  Mr.  Frazer  saw,  and  his 
feeble  attempts  to  assume  the  old  pompous  air  were  pitiful 
in  the  extreme.  He  cast  his  eye  around  the  room  with  an 
eager  look  of  inquiry:  "How  is  he,  Frazer?  How  is  Eve 
lyn  ?  Dead  ?  My  God !  It  can't  be !  My  darling,  you  must 
bear  up." 

The  drooping  figure  at  the  Colonel's  side  seemed  to 
shrink  from  the  curt  and  cruel  answer  to  her  father's  ques 
tion,  and  she  would  have  fallen  had  not  Mr.  Frazer  held 
out  to  her  his  firm  hand.  Supported  thus  between  these 
two  men,  one  her  father  and  the  other  her  friend,  she  ap- 


262  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

preached  and  gazed  long  and  fondly  upon  the  tranquil,  pas 
sionless  face  of  that  other  man  who  had  been  her  lover. 
Upon  the  other  side,  motionless  and  unnoticed,  crouched 
the  pathetic  figure  of  Jane  Chichester,  between  whom  and 
the  fair  young  girl  the  coffin  stood  as  a  barrier.  It  is  doubt 
ful  whether  Miss  Plimpton  saw  the  forlorn  woman  sitting 
there  ;  for  after  gazing  with  tearless  grief  upon  the  cold 
face  of  Vincent  Evelyn,  she  kissed  the  fair,  smooth  brow 
and  passed  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

As  Colonel  Plimpton  turned  away  his  eye  caught  the 
shining  silver  plate  on  the  coffin.  Adjusting  his  glasses, 
he  bent  over  the  memorial  and  with  some  difficulty  made 
out  the  inscription  thereon.  It  was  this: 

"CHARLES  CLARENCE  CHICHESTER, 


"Frazer  !"  cried  the  Colonel  in  an  excited  tone,  "there  is 
some  mistake  here.  They  have  sent  you  the  wrong  case. 
You  had  better  have  it  changed  at  once."  Mr.  Frazer 
simply  stood  with  his  head  bent  and  his  eyes  on  the  floor, 
and  Colonel  Plimpton,  cautioning  him  again  in  regard  to  the 
mistake,  passed  down  the  stairway  to  the  street,  with  his 
daughter  on  his  arm. 

Mr.  Frazer  retired  to  the  editorial  room  and  sat  there 
thinking  of  the  unfortunate  woman  who  was  watching  with 
the  dead.  She  should  always  have  a  home  with  him,  mused 
the  good  Samaritan,  and  then  his  thoughts  wandered  off 
to  Mattie  and  the  little  ones,  who  were  safe  in  Middle 
Georgia. 

Darkness  gathered  on  the  earth,  and  the  wild  storm 
hurled  itself  through  the  deep,  gloomy  caverns  of  night 
and  tore  a  fresh  pathway  through  the  dull,  wet  skies.  Once 
Mr.  Frazer,  with  every  "faculty  on  the  alert  for  some  fresh 
disaster,  thought  he  heard  the  trail  of  a  wet  dress  upon  the 
stairs.  He  arose  at  once  and  went  into  the  room  where 
the  dead  man  lay,  but  Jane  Chichester  was  gone.  "Mrs. 
Chichester  !"  he  called.  "Jane  !  Jane  !" 

The  echo  of  his  voice  chased  itself  through  and  through 
the  deserted  building.  Once  more  he  called  and  then  ran 
down  to  the  street  and  out  in  the  furious,  raging  tempest. 
But  Jane  Chichester  had  vanished.  It  seemed  as  if  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  263 

storm,  cruel  and  yet  merciful,  closing  around  the  poor 
wanderer,  had  caught  her  up  to  its  fierce,  tumultuous,  and 
yet  pitiful  bosom  and  so  lifted  her  forever  out  of  the  for- 
lornness  and  desolation  of  life.  J.  C.  H. 

UNCLE  REMUS  AS  A  REBEL1 

How  HE  SAVED  His  YOUNG  MASTER'S  LIFE 

(The  Story  as  Told  by  Himself) 

For  several  months  old  Uncle  Remus  has  been  in  the 
country,  raising,  as  he  modestly  expresses  it,  "a  han'ful  o' 
co'n  an'  a  pillercase  full  o'  cotton/'  He  was  in  town  yes 
terday  with  some  chickens  to  sell,  and  after  disposing  of 
his  poultry  he  called  around  to  see  us. 

"Howdy,  Uncle  Remus/' 

"Po'ly,  boss,  po'ly.  Dese  here  sudden  coolnesses  in  de 
wedder  makes  de  ole  nigger  feel  like  dere's  sump'n  outer 
gear  in  his  bones.  Hit  sorter  wakens  up  de  roomatiz." 

"How  are  crops,  Uncle  Remus?" 

"O,  craps  is  middlin'.  Cle  Master  'membered  de  ole 
nigger  w'en  he  wuz  'stributin'  de  wedder.  I  ain't  complain- 
in',  boss.  But  I'm  done  wid  farmin'  arter  dis ;  I  is  fer  a 
fac'.  De  niggers  don't  gimme  no  peace.  I  can't  res'  fer 
um.  Dey  steal  my  shotes,  an'  dey  steal  my  chickens.  No 
longerin  las'  week  I  wuz  bleedzd  ter  fling  a  han'ful  uv 
squill  shot  inter  a  nigger  what  wuz  runnin'  off  wid  fo' 
pullets  an1  a  rooster.  I'm  a-gwine  ter  drap  farmin'  sho. 
I'm  gwine  down  inter  ole  Putmon  County  an'  live  alonger 
Marse  Jeems/' 

"Somebody  was  telling  me  the  other  day,  Uncle  Remus, 
that  you  saved  your  young  master's  life  during  the  war. 
How  was  that?" 

"Well,  I  dunno,  boss,"  with  a  grin  that  showed  that  he 
was  both  pleased  and  embarrassed.  "I  dunno,  boss.  Marse 
Jeems  an'  Miss  Em'ly  dey  say  I  did." 

"Tell  me  about  it/' 

Compare  "A  Story  of  the  War"  in  "Uncle  Remus:  His  Songs 
and  His  Sayings."  In  his  Introduction  Mr.  Harris  says  this  story 
is  "almost  literally  true." 


264  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"You  ain't  got  no  time  fer  ter  set  dar  an'  hear  de  ole 
nigger  run  on  wid  'is  mouf ,  is  you  ?" 

"O,  plenty  of  time." 

"Boss,  is  you  ever  bin  down  in  Putmon  County?" 

"Often." 

"Den  you  know  whar  de  Brad  Slaughter  place  is?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"An'  Harmony?" 

"Yes/1 

"Well,  hit  wuz  right  'long  in  dere  whar  Marse  Jeems 
lived.  Wen  de  war  come  'long,  he  wuz  livin'  dere  wid  Ole 
Miss  and  Miss  Sally.  Ole  Miss  wuz  his  ma,  an'  Miss  Sally 
wuz  his  sister.  Marse  Jeems  wuz  jes'  eatchin'  ter  go  off 
an'  fight,  but  Ole  Miss  and  Miss  Sally  dey  tuk  on  so  dat 
he  couldn't  git  off  de  fus'  year.  Bimeby  times  'gun  ter  git 
putty  hot,  an'  Marse  Jeems  he  up  an'  sed  he  jes'  had  ter 
go,  an'  go  he  did.  He  got  a  overseer  for  to  look  arter  de 
place,  an'  he  went  an'  j'ined  de  ahmy.  An'  he  wuz  a  fighter, 
too,  Marse  Jeems  wuz,  one  er  de  wus'  kine.  Ole  Miss 
useter  call  me  to  de  big  house  on  Sundays  an'  read  what 
de  papers  say  'bout  Marse  Jeems. 

'  'Remus,'  sez  she,  'here's  w'at  de  papers  say  *bout  my 
baby';  an'  den  she'd  go  on  an'  read  out  twell  she  couldn't 
read  fer  cryin'. 

"Hit  went  on  dis  way  year  in  an'  year  out,  an'  dey  wuz 
mighty  lonesome  times,  boss,  sho's  you  bo'n.  De  conscrip- 
tin'  man  come  'long  one  day,  an'  he  jes'  everlastin'ly  scooped 
up  dat  overseer,  an'  den  Ole  Miss  she  sont  arter  me,  an' 
she  say:  'Remus,  I  ain't  got  nobody  fer  ter  look  arter  de 
place  but  you.'  An'  I  say :  'Mistis,  you  kin  jes'  'pen'  on  de 
ole  nigger.'  I  wuz  ole  den,  boss,  let  alone  what  I  is  now. 
An'  you  better  b'lieve  I  bossed  dem  han's.  I  had  dem  nig 
gers  up  'fo'  day,  an'  de  way  dey  did  wuk  wuz  a  caution. 
Dey  had  plenty  bread  an'  meat  an'  good  cloze  ter  w'ar,  an' 
dey  wuz  de  fattes'  niggers  in  de  whole  settlement. 

"Bimeby  one  day  Ole  Miss  she  call  me  up  an'  tell  me  dat 
de  Yankees  done  gone  an'  took  Atlanty,  and  den  present'y 
I  hear  dat  dey  wuz  marchin'  down  to'rds  Putmon,  an'  de 
fus'  thing  I  knows  Marse  Jeems  he  rid  up  one  day  wid  a 
whole  company  uv  men.  He  jes'  stop  longer  nuff  fer  ter 
change  hosses  an'  snatch  up  a  mouf'uf  uv  sump'n  t*  eat. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  265 

Ole  Miss  tole  'im  dat  I  wuz  kinder  bossin'  roun',  an*  he 
call  me  up  an'  say :  'Daddy' — all  Ole  Miss's  chillun  call  me 
daddy — 'Daddy,'  he  say,  'pears  like  dere's  goin'  ter  be 
mighty  rough  times  roun'  here.  De  Yankees  is  done  down 
ter  Madison,  an'  'twon't  be  many  days  befo'  dey'll  be  all 
thu  here.  Hit  ain't  likely  dat  dey'll  bodder  mother  er  sis ; 
but,  daddy,  ef  de  wus'  comes  ter  de  wus,'  I  'spec'  you  ter 
take  keer  un  'em.' 

"Den  I  say :  'You  bin  knowin'  me  a  long  time,  ain't  you, 
Marse  Jeems?' 

:t  'Sence  I  wuz  a  baby,  daddy,'  sez  he. 

"  'Well,  den,  Marse  Jeems/  sez  I,  'you.  know'd  'twa'n'  no 
use  fer  ter  ax  me  ter  look  arter  Ole  Miss  and  Miss  Sally/ 

"Den  de  tears  came  in  Marse  Jeems's  eyes,  an'  he  squoze 
my  han'  an'  jump  on  de  filly  I  bin  savin'  fer  'im  an'  gallop 
off.  I  know'd  by  de  way  he  talk  an'  de  way  he  look  dat 
dere  wuz  gwineter  be  sho'-'nuff  trubble,  an'  so  I  begun  fer 
ter  put  de  house  in  order,  as  de  Scripter  sez.  I  got  all  de 
cattle  an*  de  hosses  togedder,  an'  I  driv'  'em  over  to  de  fo'- 
mile  place.  I  made  a  pen  in  de  swamp,  an'  dar  I  put  de 
hogs,  an'  I  haul  nine  wagginloads  uv  co'n  an'  w'eat  an* 
fodder  to  de  crib  on  de  fo'-mile  place,  an'  den  I  groun'  my 
ax. 

"Bimeby  one  day  there  come  de  Yankees.  Dey  jes' 
swarmed  all  over  keration.  De  woods  wuz  full  un  um,  an* 
de  road  wuz  full  un  um,  an'  de  yard  wuz  full  un  um.  I 
done  heerd  dey  wuz  comin'  'fore  dey  got  in  sight,  an'  I 
went  to  de  well  an'  washed  my  face  an'  hands,  an'  den  I 
went  an'  put  on  my  Sunday  cloze,  an'  by  de  time  de  Yan 
kees  hed  arrove  I  wuz  settin'  in  Ole  Miss's  room  wid  my 
ax  'tween  my  knees. 

"Dem  Yankees  dey  jes'  ransacked  de  whole  place,  but 
dey  didn't  come  in  de  house,  an*  Ole  Miss  she  sed  she 
hoped  dey  wouldn't,  w'en  jes'  den  we  hear  steps  on  de 
po'ch,  an'  here  come  two  young  fellows  wid  strops  on  dere 
shoulders  an'  s'ords  draggin'  on  de  flo'  an'  dere  spurs  rat- 
tlin*.  I  won't  say  I  wuz  skeerd,  boss,  'cause  I  wuzent,  but 
I  had  a  mighty  funny  feelin'  in  de  naberhood  uv  de  giz 
zard. 

"  'Hello,  ole  man/  sez  one.     'Wat  you  doin'  in  here  ?' 


266  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Ole  Miss  didn't  turn  her  head,  an'  Miss  Sally  look  straight 
at  de  fier. 

"  'Well,  boss/  sez  I,  'I  bin  cuttin'  some  wood  for  Ole 
Miss,  an*  I  jes'  stop  fer  ter  worn  my  han's  a  little.' 

"  'Hit  is  cole,  dat's  a  fac'/  sez  he.  Den  I  got  up  en  tuck 
my  stan'  behime  Ole  Miss  and  Miss  Sally,  a-leanin'  on  my 
ax.  De  udder  feller  he  wuz  stannin'  over  by  de  sidebode 
lookin'  at  de  dishes  an'  de  silver  mugs  an'  pitchers.  De 
man  what  wuz  talkin'  ter  me  he  went  up  ter  de  fier  an' 
lean  over  an'  worn  his  han's.  Fus'  thing  you  know  he 
raise  up  suddenlike  an'  say:  'Wat  dat  on  yo'  ax?'  'Dat's 
de  fier  shinin'  on  it/  sez  I.  'I  thought  it  wuz  blood/  sez 
he.  An'  den  hs  laft. 

"But,  boss,  dat  young  feller  wouldn't  'a'  laft  dat  day  ef 
he'd  a-know'd  how  nigh  unto  eternity  he  wuz.  Ef  he'd 
jes'  laid  de  weight  uv  his  han'  on  Ole  Miss  or  Miss  Sally 
in  dar  dat  day,  boss,  he'd  'a'  never  know'd  w'at  hit  'im  er 
whar  he  was  hit  at,  an'  my  onliest  grief  would  'a*  bin  de 
needcessity  of  sp'ilin*  Old  Miss's  kyarpit.  But  dey  didn't 
bodder  nobody  ner  nuthin',  an'  dey  bowed  derself  out  like 
dey  had  real  good  breedin',  dey  did  dat. 

"Well,  de  Yankees  dey  kep'  passin'  all  de  mornin',  an' 
it  'peared  ter  me  dat  dere  wuz  a  string  uv  'em  ten  mile 
long;  den  they  commence  gittin'  thinner  an*  thinner,  sca'cer 
an'  sca'cer,  an'  bimeby  I  hear  skirmishin'  goin'  on,  an'  Ole 
Miss  she  say  how  it  wuz  Wheeler's  Caverly  a-followin'  uv 
'em  up.  I  know'd  dat  ef  Wheeler's  boys  wuz  dat  close  I 
wuzen't  doin'  no  good  settin'  roun'  de  house,  so  I  jes'  took 
Marse  Jeems's  rifle  an'  started  out  to  look  arter  my  stock. 
Hit  wuz  a  mighty  raw  day,  dat  day  wuz,  an'  de  leaves  on 
de  groun'  wuz  wet,  so  dey  didn't  make  no  fuss ;  an'  w'enever 
I  heerd  a  Yankee  ridin'  by,  I  jes'  stop  in  my  tracks  an'  let 
'im  pass.  I  wuz  a-stannin'  dat  way  in  de  aidge  uv  de  woods 
w'en  all  a  sudden  I  see  a  little  ring  uv  blue  smoke  bust 
outen  de  top  uv  a  pine  tree  'bout  half  a  mile  off,  an'  den 
'fo'  I  coulcl  gedder  up  mv  idees  here  come  de  noise — bang! 
Dat  pine,  boss,  wuz  de  biggest  an'  de  highest  on  de  plan- 
tash'n,  an'  dere  wuzn't  a  lim'  on  it  fer  mighty  nigh  a  hun 
dred  feet  up,  an*  den  dey  all  branched  out  an'  made  de  top 
look  sorter  like  a  umb^rill. 

"Sez  I  to  myself :  'Honey,  you  er  right  on  my  route,  an' 


Early  Literary  Efforts  267 

I'll  see  what  kinder  bird  is  a-roostin'  in  you.'  Wile  I  wuz 
a-talkin'  de  smoke  bus*  out  again,  an'  den — bang!  I  jesf 
drap  back  inter  de  woods  an'  skearted  roun'  so's  ter  fetch 
de  pine  'tween  me  an'  de  road.  I  slid  up  putty  close  ter 
de  tree,  an',  boss,  w'at  you  reckon  I  see?" 

"I  have  no  idea,  Uncle  Remus." 

"Well,  jes'  sho'  ez  youer  settin'  dar  lissenin'  to  de  ole 
nigger  dere  wuz  a  live  Yankee  'way  up  dar  in  dat  pine,  an' 
he  had  a  spyglass,  an'  he  wuz  a-loadin'  an'  a-shootin'  at 
de  boys  jes'  as  cool  ez  a  cowcumber,  an'  he  had  his  hoss 
tied  out  in  de  bushes,  'caze  I  heerd  de  creeter  trompin' 
roun'.  While  I  wuz  a-watchin*  un  'im  I  see  'im  raise  dat 
spyglass,  look  fru  'em  a  minriit,  an'  den  put  'em  down  sud 
den  an'  fix  hissef  fer  ter  shoot.  I  sorter  shifted  roun'  so 
I  could  see  de  road,  an'  I  had  putty  good  eyes  in  dem  days 
too.  I  waited  a  minnit,  an'  den  who  should  I  see  comin' 
down  de  road  but  Marse  Jeems !  I  didn't  see  his  face,  but, 
boss,  I  know'd  de  filly  dat  I  had  raised  fer  'im,  an'  she  wuz 
a-prancin'  an'  dancin'  like  a  schoolgal.  I  know'd  dat  man 
in  de  tree  wuz  gwineter  shoot  Marse  Jeems  ef  he  could, 
an'  dat  I  couldn't  stan'.  I  hed  nussed  dat  boy  in  my  arms 
many  an'  many  a  day,  an'  I  hed  toted  'im  on  my  back,  an' 
I  1'arnt  'im  how  ter  ride  an'  how  ter  swim  an'  how  ter  rastle, 
an'  I  couldn't  b'ar  de  idee  uv  stannin'  dere  an'  see  dat  man 
shoot  'im.  I  know'd  dat  de  Yankees  wuz  gwineter  free  de 
niggers,  'caze  Ole  Miss  done  tole  me  so,  an'  I  didn't  want 
ter  hurt  dis  man  in  de  tree.  But,  boss,  w'en  I  see  him  lay 
dat  gun  'cross  a  lim'  an'  settle  hisse'f  back  an'  Marse  Jeems 
goin'  home  ter  Ole  Miss  an'  Miss  Sally,  I  disremembered 
all  'bout  freedom,  an'  I  jes'  raise  up  wid  de  rifle  I  had  an' 
let  de  man  have  all  she  had.  His  gun  drapped  down  an' 
come  mighty  nigh  shootin'  de  ole  nigger  w'en  hit  struck 
de^ground.  Marse  Jeems  he  heered  de  racket  an'  rid  over, 
an'  w'en  I  tell  'im  'bout  it  you  never  seed  a  man  take  on  so. 
He  come  mighty  nigh  cryin'  over  de  o!e  nigger,  I  declar' 
ter  grashus  ef  he  didn't  An'  Ole  Miss— w'y  Ole  Miss 
fa'rly  hugged  me;  an'  w'en  I  see  how  glad  dey  wuz,  my 
conshuns  bin  restin'  easy  ever  sence." 

"How  about  the  soldier  you  killed?" 

"We  had  ter  cut  down  de  tree  fer  ter  bury  'im." 


268  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"How  did  he  get  up  there?" 

"W'y,  boss,  he  had  on  a  pa'r  uv  dese  telegraf  spurs,  de 
kine  w'at  de  fellers  clime  de  poles  wid." 

"Your  Marse  Jeems  must  be  very  grateful." 

"Lor',  chile,  dey  ain't  nuthin'  Marse  Jeems  is  got  dat's  too 
good  fer  me.  Dat's  w'at  make  me  say  w'at  I  do.  I  ain't 
gwineter  be  working  'roun*  here  'mong  dese  chain  gang 
niggers  w'en  I  got  a  good  home  down  yander  in  Putmon. 
Boss,  can't  you  give  de  ole  nigger  a  thrip  fer  to  git  'im 
some  sody  water  wid." 

And  the  faithful  old  darky  went  his  way.          J.  C.  H. 

THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

The  scourge  that  swept  slavery  into  the  deep  sea  of  the 
past  gave  the  deathblow  to  one  of  the  peculiar  outgrowths 
of  that  institution.  The  results  that  made  slavery  impossi 
ble  blotted  from  the  Southern  social  system  the  patriarchal 
— we  had  almost  written  feudal — establishment  known  as  the 
old  plantation.  Nourished  into  life  by  slavery,  it  soon  be 
came  one  of  the  features  of  Southern  civilization — a  pecul 
iar  feature,  indeed,  and  one  which  for  many  years  exerted 
a  powerful  influence  throughout  the  world.  The  genius  of 
such  men  as  Washington,  Jefferson,  Patrick  Henry,  Taney, 
Marshall,  Calhoun,  Stephens,  Toombs,  and  all  the  greatest 
leaders  of  political  thought  and  opinion  from  the  days  of 
the  Revolution  to  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  was  the 
result  and  outgrowth  of  the  civilization  made  possible  by 
the  old  plantation.  It  was  a  cherished  feature  of  Southern 
society,  and  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  its  demolition  has 
been  more  deeply  deplored  by  our  people  than  all  the  other 
results  of  the  war  put  together.  The  brave  men  and  noble 
women  who  at  the  end  found  themselves  confronting  the 
dire  confusion  and  desolation  of  an  unsuccessful  struggle 
have  been  compelled  to  set  their  faces  toward  the  new 
future  that  is  always  ahead  of  the  hopeful  and  true- 
hearted  ;  but  how  many  times  have  they  turned  and  sighed, 
endeavoring  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  ruins  of  the  old  plan 
tation  !  Now  that  the  problem  of  slavery,  which  even  be 
fore  the  desperate  cast  of  the  die  in  1861  had  begun  to  per 
plex  the  more  thoughtful  of  the  Southern  people,  is  sue- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  269 

cessfully  (but  O  how  cruelly!)  solved,  even  the  bare  sug 
gestion  of  its  reestablishment  is  unsavory ;  but  the  memory 
of  the  old  plantation  will  remain  green  and  gracious  for 
ever. 

What  days  they  were,  those  days  on  the  old  plantation! 
How  vividly  you  remember  the  slightest  incident!  How- 
picturesque  the  panorama  that  passes  before  your  mind's 
eye!  There  was  the  fox  hunt  planned  for  the  especial 
benefit  of  Miss  Carrie  de  Compton,  the  belle  of  Rockville. 
(If  we  should  give  the  name  of  the  town,  you  would  abuse 
us  for  exposing  you  in  the  newspapers.)  You  remember 
lying  in  a  state  between  dreaming  and  waking  as  Aunt  Pa 
tience,  fat  and  cheery — heaven  rest  the  good  old  negro's 
soul ! — comes  into  your  room  with  much  ado,  bearing  a 
steaming  cup  of  coffee.  Curiously  enough,  you  recall  al 
most  her  very  words  as  she  endeavors  to  arouse  you  to  a 
contemplation  of  the  necessities  of  such  a  momentous  occa 
sion  as  a  fox  hunt.  "Well,  I  declar'  ter  grashus  ef  dat  chile 
ain't  layin'  dar  yit!  Git  outen  dat  bed  dis  minit!  How 
you  gwine  ter  ketch  foxes  under  that  bo'lster  ?  Git  up  f rum 
dar !  Dat  young  gal  done  bin  up  too  long  ter  talk  'bout !" 
You  remember  what  an  impression  the  fair  Carrie  made 
upon  you  in  her  trim  riding  habit,  and  how,  when  with  one 
dainty  hand  holding  the  folds  of  her  skirt  she  stooped  to 
caress  your  favorite  hound  Flora,  you  lost  your  heart  utter 
ly.  It  is  all  indelibly  impressed  upon  your  memory — the 
ride  to  Sir  Reynard's  range,  the  casting  about  of  the 
hounds,  the  sudden  burst  of  canine  melody  as  the  fox  gets 
up  right  in  the  midst  of  the  pack,  the  hard  ride  at  the  heels 
of  the  hounds  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  the  sudden  in 
spiration  on  your  part  that  it  would  be  well  to  guide  the 
fair  De  Compton  to  a  point  near  which  the  fox  (an  old 
customer  of  yours)  would  surely  pass.  You  remember  how 
you  vainly  endeavored  to  convince  your  skeptical  charge 
that  the  slight,  dark  shadow  stealing  across  the  hillside  not 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  was  the  veritable  fox  the  dogs 
were  after,  how  your  whole  frame  tingled  with  delight 
when  the  soul-stirring  music  of  the  hounds  was  borne  to 
your  ears  on  the  crisp  breeze  of  morning,  and  what  a  thrill 
came  over  you  as  the  pack  burst  into  view,  running  with 


270  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

heads  i:p  and  tails  down,  your  Flora  far  to  the  front  and 
flying  like  a  meteor. 

What  nights  were  the  nights  on  the  old  plantation !  The 
mellow  light  of  the  harvest  moon  crept  through  the  rustling 
leaves  of  the  tall  oaks,  fell  softly  upon  the  open  space  be 
yond,  and  bathed  the  brown  old  barn  in  a  flood  of  golden 
glory,  while  the  songs  of  the  negroes  at  the  corn  pile,  lusty 
chorus  and  plaintive  refrain,  shook  the  silence  until  it  broke 
upon  the  air  in  far-reaching  waves  of  melody.  But,  alas! 
all  these  are  gone.  The  moon  pursues  her  pathway  as  se 
renely  as  of  old,  but  she  no  longer  looks  down  upon  the 
scenes  that  were  familiar  to  your  youth.  The  old  home 
stead  and  the  barn  are  given  up  to  decay,  and  the  songs 
of  the  negroes  have  been  hushed  into  silence  by  the  neces 
sities  of  a  new  dispensation.  The  old  plantation  itself  is 
gone.  It  has  passed  away,  but  the  hand  of  time,  inexorable 
and  yet  tender,  has  woven  about  it  the  sweet  suggestions 
of  poetry  and  romance,  memorials  that  neither  death  nor 
decay  can  destroy. 

A  GEORGIA  FOX  HUNT 
How  REYNARD  WAS  RUN  TO  EARTH  IN  THE  OLDEN  TIME 

"Something  Lijjht  for  Sunday" — How  the  Editorial  Presence  Got 
Its  Foot  in  It — Tom  Tunison  and  the  Fair  De  Compton 


If  the  public  ever  deserved  to  be  apologized  to,  they 
deserve  it  now,  and  the  mischief  of  it  is  the  whole  affair  is 
the  result  of  such  a  curious  and  unexpected  combination 
of  circumstances  as  to  make  an  apology  exceedingly  awk 
ward.  In  all  human  probability,  basing  the  estimate  on  the 
official  returns  already  received,  these  circumstances 
wouldn't  occur  again  in  the  course  of  half  a  century  or 
more.  You  see  it  was  this  way:  Saturday,  the  8th  day  of 
December  (it  is  well  to  be  particular  about  dates),  a  young 
man  connected  with  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Constitution 
strolled  into  the  office,  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  and  pro 
ceeded  in  a  leisurely  way  to  forge  a  few  paragraphical  hur 
rahs  in  token  that  the  citizens  of  Atlanta  were  keenly  alive 
to  the  significance  of  the  majority  their  city  had  received 
in  the  recent  election.  He  was  thus  engaged  when  his  at- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  271 

tention  was  attracted  by  a  buff  card  lying  within  convenient 
reach.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  it,  and,  seeing  it,  it  was 
impossible  not  to  realize  its  significance.  The  Editorial 
Presence  had  placed  it  there.  The  Editorial  Hand  had 
penned  the  four  words  written  upon  its  embossed  face. 
"Something  light  for  Sunday !"  It  was  intended  to  be  a 
suggestion ;  it  was  really  a  problem.  "Something  light  for 
Sunday !"  The  young  man  pondered  long  and  sorely.  He 
could  have  written  an  article  in  defense  of  Atlanta  in 
short  order ;  he  could  have  dashed  off  a  score  of  para 
graphic  flippancies  with  little  or  no  difficulty ;  but  "some 
thing  light  for  Sunday"  was  rather  more  than  he  bargained 
for. 

Howbeit,  he  made  an  effort.  He  tackled  the  problem 
then  and  there,  and  after  working  himself  into  a  condition 
to  appreciate  the  poetry  there  is  in  Sidney  Lanier's  apt 
remark  about  "the  sweat  of  fight"  came  forth  a  conqueror. 
He  had  successfully  composed  "something  light  for  Sun 
day" — that  is  to  say,  he  had  written  an  article  that  might 
possibly  have  been  transported  through  the  mails  for  a  dol 
lar  and  a  half's  worth  of  three-cent  stamps ;  but  it  seemed 
to  him,  after  all  the  trouble  he  had  encountered,  that  it 
weighed  fully  thirty-nine  pounds  and  a  half,  or  only  about 
seven  pounds  and  a  quarter  less  than  some  of  the  light 
articles  you  meet  up  with  in  the  newspapers.  The  article 
was  handed  in,  duly  considered ;  and  as  "something  light 
for  Sunday"  seemed  to  be  a  pressing  public  necessity,  it 
was  allowed  to  appear  in  print.  This,  it  must  be  remem 
bered,  was  Saturday,  the  8th  day  of  December. 

Wednesday,  the  I2th  day  of  December  inst,  the  Edi 
torial  Presence,  after  fumbling  around  in  its  coat  tail 
pockets,  produced  the  following  letter,  which  was  handed 
over  to  the  conscience-smitten  wretch  who  had  written 
"something  light  for  Sunday": 

"Dear  Mr.  Editor:  I  read  your  piece  on  the  'Old  Plan 
tation'  all  through,  and  I  liked  it  ever  so  much.  Mamma 
says  it  is  ever  so  nice,  but  papa  says  it  is  all  stuff;  and  I 
thought  I  would  write  and  ask  if  Miss  Carrie  de  Compton 
was  a  real,  sure-enough  person  and  if  young  ladies  really 
went  hunting  foxes.  Mamma  says  editors  don't  have  time 


272  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

to  be  troubled,  but  I  told  her  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  told 
you  I  was  a  little  girl  only  nine  years  old  and  named  Carrie 
too.  CARRIE  ABERCROMBIE. 

"P.  S.— Please  tell  me." 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  "if 
some  people" — 

The  Editorial   Presence   waved  him  down,   as  it  were. 
"You  must  remember,"  said  the  E.  P.  gently  and  almost 
with  a  sigh,  "that  the  letter  is  written  by  a  little  child." 
"But,  goodness  me !    What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?" 
The  Editorial  Presence  smiled  (it  has  a  way  of  smiling 
when  it  gets  a  fellow  in  a  corner)  :  "Was  there  ever  such  a 
place  as  Rockville?" 

"Why,  you  don't  suppose" — 

"Was  there  any  such  person  as  the  fair  De  Compton?" 
"My  gracious !    You  can't  mean  to  insinuate" — 
"Write  about  them.    The  little  girl  will  be  interested,  if 
no  one  else  is.    Give  us  'something  light  for  Sunday,' "  and 
the  Editorial  Presence  glided  out  to  get  oysters. 

"I'll  give  you  something  light,"  the  young  man  muttered 
between  his  clinched  teeth.  "I'll  show  you  miserable  read 
ers  what  it  is  to  swallow  and  digest  a  cold  literary  flatiron." 
And  then  all  was  silent  in  the  sanctum  except  the  noise 
made  by  a  venerable  rat  whose  experience  had  given  an 
epicurean  twang  to  his  taste  and  who,  taking  up  a  position 
behind  the  wainscoting,  refused  to  be  mollified  because  the 
paste  was  stale. 

ii 

In  the  season  of  1863  the  Rockville  Hunting  Club,  which 
had  been  newly  organized,  was  at  the  height  of  its  success. 
It  was  composed  of  men  who  were  too  old  to  go  into  the 
army  and  of  young  men  who  were  old  enough,  but  who 
from  one  cause  and  another  were  exempted  from  military 
service.  Ostensibly  its  object  was  to  encourage  the  noble 
sport  of  fox-hunting  and  to  bind  by  closer  social  ties  the 
congenial  souls  whose  love  for  horses  and  hound  and  horn 
bordered  on  enthusiasm.  This,  I  say,  was  its  ostensible 
object :  for  it  seems  to  me,  looking  back  upon  that  terrible 
time,  that  the  main  object  of  the  association  was  to  devise 
new  methods  of  forgetting  the  sickening  portents  of  dis- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  273 

aster  that  were  even  then  thick  in  the  air.  Any  suggestion 
or  plan  calculated  to  relieve  the  mind  from  the  contem 
plation  of  the  horrors  of  those  desperate  days  was  eagerly 
seized  upon  and  utilized.  With  the  old  men  and  fledgling 
boys  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rockville  the  desire  to  mo 
mentarily  escape  the  realities  of  the  present  took  the  shape 
of  fox-hunting  and  other  congenial  amusements.  With 
the  women — ah,  well !  Heaven  only  knows  how  they  sat 
dumb  and  silent  over  their  great  anguish  and  grief,  cheer 
ing  the  hopeless  and  comforting  and  succoring  the  sick  and 
wounded.  It  was  a  mystery  to  me  then,  and  it  is  a  mystery 
now. 

About  the  ist  of  November  the  writer  received  a  long- 
expected  letter  from  Tom  Tunison,  the  secretary  of  the 
club,  who  was  on  a  visit  to  Monticello.  It  was  character 
istically  brief  and  breezy. 

"Young  man,"  he  wrote,  "we've  got  'em.  They  are  com 
ing.  They  are  going  to  give  us  a  raffle.  Their  dogs  are 
good,  but  they  lack  form  and  finish  as  well  as  discipline — 
plenty  of  bottom,  but  no  confidence.  I  haven't  hesitated 
to  put  up  the  horn.  Get  the  boys  together  and  tell  'em 
about  it  and  see  that  our  own  eleven  are  in  fighting  trim. 
You  won't  believe  it,  but  Sue,  Herndon,  Kate,  and  Walthall 
are  coming  with  the  party,  and  the  fair  De  Compton,  who 
set  all  the  Monticello  boys  wild  last  year  when  she  got  back 
from  Macon,  vows  and  declares  she  is  coming  too.  You 
can  bet  your  sweet  life  she's  a  rattler.  Remember,  the 
1 5th.  Be  prepared." 

I  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Tom  in  his  reckless 
style  had  bantered  a  party  of  Jasper  County  men  as  to  the 
inferiority  of  their  dogs  and  had  even  offered  to  give  them 
an  opportunity  to  wear  the  silver-mounted  horn,  won  by 
the  Rockville  Club  in  Hancock  County  the  year  before.  The 
Jasper  County  men,  who  were  really  breeding  some  ex 
cellent  dogs,  accepted  the  challenge,  and  Tom  had  invited 
them  to  share  the  hospitality  of  the  plantation  home  called 
Bachelor's  Hall.  If  the  truth  must  be  confessed,  I  was 
not  at  all  grieved  at  the  announcement  made  in  Tom's  let 
ter.  Apart  from  the  agreeable  change  in  the  social  atmo 
sphere  that  would  be  made  by  the  presence  of  ladies  in 
Bachelor's  Hall,  I  was  eagerly  anxious  to  test  the  mettle 
18 


274  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  a  favorite  hound,  Flora,  whose  care  and  training  had 
cost  me  a  great  deal  of  time  and  trouble.  Although  it  was 
her  first  season  in  the  field,  she  had  already  become  the 
pet  and  pride  of  the  Rockville  Club,  the  members  of  which 
were  not  slow  to  sound  her  praises.  Flora  was  an  experi 
ment.  She  was  the  result  of  a  cross  between  the  Henry 
hound  (called  in  Georgia  the  "Bird-song  dog,"  in  honor  of 
their  most  successful  breeder)  and  the  Maryland  hound. 
She  was  a  granddaughter  of  the  famous  Hodo  and  in 
everything  except  her  color  (she  was  white,  with  yellow 
ears)  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  that  magnificent  fox 
hound.  I  was  anxious  to  see  her  put  to  the  test. 

It  was  with  no  small  degree  of  satisfaction,  therefore, 
that  I  informed  Aunt  Patience,  the  cook,  of  Tom's  pro 
gram.  Aunt  Patience  was  a  privileged  character,  and  her 
comments  upon  people  and  things  were  free  and  frequent; 
and  when  she  heard  that  a  party  of  hunters,  accompanied 
by  ladies,  proposed  to  make  the  Hall  their  temporary  head 
quarters,  her  remarks  were  ludicrously  indignant. 

"Well,  ef  dat  Marse  Tom  ain't  de  beatenest  white  man 
dat  I  ever  sot  eyes  on!  'Way  off  yander  givin'  'way  his 
vittles  'fo'  he  buy  um  at  de  sto'.  How  I  know  what  Marse 
Tom  want?  An'  ef  I  know,  whar  I  gwineter  git  um?  Bet 
ter  be  home  yer  lookin'  atter  dese  lazy  niggers  stidder 
high-flyin'  wid  dem  Jasper  County  folks.  Ef  dez  enny 
vittles  on  dis  plan'ash'n,  hit's  more'n  I  knows  un.  En  he'll 
trollops  roun'  wid  dem  harium-skarium  gals  twell  I  boun' 
he  don't  fetch  dat  pipe  an'  dat  backer  what  he  said  he 
would.  Can't  fool  me  'bout  de  gals  what  grows  up  dese 
days.  Dey  duz  like  dey  wanter  stan'  up  an'  cuss  deyse'f 
case  dey  wuzn't  born'd  men." 

"Why,  Aunt  Patience,  your  Marse  Tom  says  Miss  de 
Compton  is  as  pretty  as  a  pink  and  as  fine  as  a  fiddle." 
The  observant  reader  will  perceive  that  I  failed  to  quote 
Tom's  language  correctly. 

"Law,  chile,  you  needn't  talk  'bout  de  gals  to  dis  ole 
'oman  !  I  done  know  um  'fo'  you  wuz  born'd.  W'en  you  see 
Miss  de  Compton,  you  see  all  de  balance  un  um.  Deze  is 
new  times.  Marse  Tom's  mammy  use  ter  spin  her  fifteen 
cuts  a  day.  When  you  see  yo'  Miss  Compton  wid  a  hank 
er  yarn  in  'er  han',  you  jes'  sen'  me  word/' 


Early  Literary  Efforts  275 

Whereupon  Aunt  Patience  gave  her  head  handkerchief 
a  vigorous  wrench  and  went  her  way,  the  good  oid  soul, 
even  then  considering  how  she  should  best  go  about  pre 
paring  a  genuine  surprise  for  her  young  master  in  the  shape 
of  daily  feasts  for  a  dozen  guests.  I  shall  not  stop  here  to 
detail  the  character  of  this  preparation  nor  to  dwell  upon 
its  ultimate  success.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  Tom  Tunison 
praised  Aunt  Patience  to  the  skies,  and,  as  if  this  were  not 
enough  to  make  her  happy,  he  produced  a  big  clay  pipe, 
three  plugs  of  real  "manufacter  'backer,"  which  was  hard 
to  get  in  those  times,  a  red  shawl,  and  twelve  yards  of 
calico. 

The  fortnight  that  followed  the  arrival  of  Tom's  guests 
was  one  long  to  be  remembered  not  only  in  the  annals  of 
the  Rockville  Hunting  Club,  but  in  the  annals  of  Rockville 
itself.  The  fair  De  Compton  literally  turned  the  heads  of 
old  men  and  young  boys  and  even  succeeded  in  conquering 
the  critics  of  her  own  sex.  She  was  marvelously  beauti 
ful,  and  her  beauty  was  of  a  kind  to  haunt  one  in  one's 
dreams.  It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  she  had  made  a  con 
quest  of  Tom,  and  I  knew  that  every  suggestion  he  made 
and  every  project  he  planned  had  for  its  sole  end  and  aim 
the  enjoyment  of  Miss  Carrie  de  Compton. 

It  was  several  days  before  the  minor  details  of  the  con 
test  which  was  at  once  the  excuse  for  and  the  object  of 
the  visit  of  Tom's  guests  could  be  arranged,  but  finally 
everything  was  "amicably  adjusted"  and  the  day  appointed. 
The  night  before  the  hunt  the  club  and  the  Jasper  County 
visitors  assembled  in  Tom  Tunison's  parlors  for  a  final 
discussion  of  the  event. 

"In  order,"  said  Tom,  "to  give  our  friends  and  guests 
an  opportunity  to  fully  test  the  speed  and  bottom  of  their 
kennels,  it  has  been  decided  to  pay  our  respects  to  'Old 
Sandy/  " 

"And  pray,  Mr.  Tunison,  who  is  'Old  Sandy?'"  queried 
Miss  de  Compton. 

"He  is  a  fox,  Miss  de  Compton,  and  a  tough  one.  He  is 
a  trained  fox.  He  has  been  hunted  so  often  by  the  in 
ferior  packs  in  his  neighborhood  that  he  is  well-nigh  in 
vincible.  Between  midnight  and  dawn,  if  he  hears  the  bark 
of  a  dog  or  the  sound  of  a  horn,  he  is  up  and  away.  He  is 


276  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

so  well  known  that  he  has  not  been  hunted,  except  by  acci 
dent,  for  two  seasons.  He  is  not  as  suspicious  as  he  was 
two  years  ago,  but  we  must  be  careful  if  we  want  to  get 
within  hearing  distance  of  him  to-morrow  morning." 

"Do  any  of  the  ladies  go  with  us?"  asked  Jack  Herndon. 

"I  go,  for  one,"  responded  Miss  de  Compton,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  all  the  ladies  had  decided  to  go  along,  even 
if  they  found  it  inconvenient  to  participate  actively  when 
the  trouble  began. 

"Then,"  said  Tom,  rising,  "we  must  say  good  night. 
Uncle  Plato  will  sound  'boot  and  saddle'  at  four  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 

"Four  o'clock !"  exclaimed  the  ladies  in  dismay. 

"At  four  precisely,"  answered  Tom,  and  the  ladies  with 
pretty  little  glances  and  gestures  of  mock  despair  went 
upstairs,  while  Tom  prepared  to  brew  something  warm  for 
the  boys. 

My  friend  little  knew  how  delighted  I  was  that  "Old 
Sandy"  was  to  be  put  through  his  paces.  He  little  knew 
how  carefully  I  had  studied  the  characteristics  of  this  fa 
mous  fox;  how  often  when  training  Flora  I  had  taken  her 
out  alone  and  followed  "Old  Sandy"  through  all  his  ranges ; 
how  I  had  "felt  of"  both  his  speed  and  bottom  and  knew 
all  his  weak  points. 

in 

But  morning  came  and  with  it  Uncle  Plato's  bugle  call. 
Aunt  Patience  was  ready  with  a  smoking  hot  breakfast, 
and  everybody  was  in  fine  spirits  as  the  eager,  happy  crowd 
filed  down  the  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the  hall.  The  fair 
De  Compton,  who  had  been  delayed  in  mounting,  rode  up 
by  my  side. 

"You  choose  your  escort  well,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"I  have  a  weakness  for  children,"  she  replied,  "particu 
larly  for  children  who  know  what  they  are  about.  Plato 
has  told  me  that  if  I  desired  to  see  all  of  the  hunt  without 
much  trouble  to  follow  you.  I  am  selfish,  you  will  per 
ceive." 

Thus  we  rode  over  the  red  hills  and  under  the  russet 
trees  until  we  came  to  "Old  Sandy's"  favorite  haunt.  Here 
a  council  of  war  was  held,  and  it  was  decided  that  Tom 
and  a  portion  of  the  hunters  should  skirt  the  fields;  while 


Early  Literary  Efforts  277 

another  portion,  led  by  Miss  de  Compton  and  myself,  should 
enter  and  bid  the  fox  good  morning.  Uncle  Plato,  who 
had  been  given  the  cue,  followed  me  with  the  dogs,  and  in 
a  few  moments  we  were  very  near  to  the  particular  spot 
where  I  had  hoped  to  find  the  venerable  deceiver  of  dogs 
and  men.  The  hounds  were  already  sallying  hither  and 
thither,  anxious  and  evidently  expectant.  Five  minutes 
go  without  a  whimper  from  the  pack.  There  is  not  a 
sound  save  the  eager  rustling  of  the  dogs  through  the 
sedge  and  undergrowth.  The  ground  is  familiar  to  Flora, 
and  I  watch  her  with  pride  as  with  powerful  strides  she 
circles  around.  She  draws  nearer  and  nearer.  Suddenly 
she  pauses  and  flings  her  head  in  the  air,  making  a  beauti 
ful  picture  as  she  stands  poised  as  if  listening.  My  heart 
gives  a  great  thump.  It  is  an  old  trick  of  hers,  and  I 
know  that  "Old  Sandy"  has  been  around  within  the  past 
twenty- four  hours.  With  a  rush,  a  bound,  and  an  eager 
cry,  my  favorite  comes  toward  us,  and  the  next  moment 
"Old  Sandy,"  who  has  been  lying  almost  at  our  horses' 
feet,  is  up  and  away,  with  Flora  right  at  his  heels.  A  wild 
hope  seizes  me  that  my  favorite  will  run  into  the  sly  vet 
eran  before  he  can  get  out  of  the  field.  But  no!  One  of 
the  Jasper  County  hunters,  rendered  momentarily  insane 
by  excitement,  endeavored  to  ride  the  fox  down  with  his 
horse;  and  in  another  moment  Sir  Reynard  is  over  the 
fence  and  into  the  woodland  beyond,  followed  by  the 
hounds.  They  make  a  splendid  but  ineffectual  burst  of 
speed,  for  when  "Old  Sandy"  finds  himself  upon  the  black 
jack  hills  he  is  foot-loose.  The  morning,  however,  is  fine, 
just  damp  enough  to  leave  the  scent  of  the  fox  hanging 
breast-high  in  the  air,  whether  he  shape  his  course  over 
lowland  or  highland.  In  the  midst  of  all  the  confusion  that 
has  ensued  Miss  de  Compton  remains  cool,  serene,  and 
apparently  indifferent ;  but  I  observe  a  glow  upon  her  face 
and  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes  as  Tom  Tunison,  riding  his  gal 
lant  gray  and  heading  the  hunters,  easily  and  gracefully 
takes  a  couple  of  fences  as  the  hounds  veer  to  the  left. 

"Our  Jasper  County  friend  has  saved  'Old  Sandy/  Miss 
de  Compton,  but  Pie  has  given  us  an  opportunity  of  wit 
nessing  some  very  fine  sport.  The  fox  is  badly  frightened, 
and  he  may  endeavor  in  the  beginning  to  outfoot  the  dogs ; 


278  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

but  in  the  end  he  will  return  to  his  range,  and  then  I  hope 
to  show  you  what  a  cunning  old  customer  he  is.  If  Flora 
doesn't  fail  us  at  the  critical  moment,  you  will  have  the 
honor  of  wearing  his  brush  on  your  saddle." 

"Youth  is  always  confident,"  replied  Miss  de  Compton. 

"In  this  instance,  however,  I  have  the  advantage  of 
knowing  both  hound  and  fox.  Flora  has  a  few  of  the 
weaknesses,  but  I  think  she  understands  what  is  expected 
of  us  to-day." 

Thus  bantering  and  chaffing  each  other,  we  turned  our 
horses'  heads  in  a  direction  oblique  of  that  taken  by  the 
other  hunters,  who,  with  the  exception  of  Tom  Tunison 
and  Jack  Herndon,  who  were  well  up  with  the  dogs,  were 
struggling  along  as  best  they  could.  For  half  a  mile  or 
more  we  cantered  down  a  lane,  turned  into  a  stubble  field, 
and  made  for  a  hill  crowned  and  skirted  with  a  growth  of 
blackjack,  through  which,  as  it  seemed,  an  occasional  pine 
had  broken  in  a  vain  but  majestic  effort  to  touch  the 
sky.  Once  upon  the  summit  of  this  hill,  we  had  a  ma 
jestic  view  upon  all  sides.  The  fresh  morning  breezes 
blew  crisp  and  cool  and  bracing,  but  not  uncomfortable 
after  the  exercise  we  had  taken ;  and  as  the  clouds  that  had 
muffled  up  the  east  dispersed  themselves  or  were  dissolved, 
the  generous  sun  spread  layer  after  layer  of  golden  light 
upon  hill  and  valley  and  forest  and  stream.  Miss  de  Comp 
ton  did  not  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  scene  that  met  her 
view,  albeit  I  could  perceive  that  she  enjoyed  it  in  detail 
and  as  a  whole  with  the  keen  appreciation  of  an  artist,  and 
it  was  this  fact  that  first  impressed  me  with  the  idea  that 
she  would  make  an  excellent  Mrs.  Tom  Tunison. 

Away  to  the  left  we  could  hear  the  hounds,  and  the 
music  of  their  voices,  toyed  with  by  the  playful  wind,  rolled 
itself  into  melodious  little  echoes  that  broke  pleasantly  upon 
the  ear,  now  loud,  now  faint,  now  far,  and  now  near.  The 
first  burst  of  speed,  which  had  been  terrific,  had  settled 
down  into  a  steady  run ;  but  I  knew  by  the  sound  that  the 
pace  was  tremendous,  arid  I  imagined  I  could  hear  the 
silvery  tongue  of  Flora  as  she  led  the  eager  pack.  The 
music  of  the  hounds,  however,  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
until  presently  it  was  lost  in  the  distance. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  279 

"He  is  making  a  straight  shoot  for  the  Turner  old  fields, 
two  miles  away,"  I  remarked  by  way  of  explanation. 

"And  pray  why  are  we  here?"  Miss  de  Compton  asks. 

"To  be  in  at  the  death.  [The  fair  De  Compton  smiles 
sarcastically.]  In  the  Turner  old  fields  the  fox  will  make 
his  grand  double,  gain  upon  the  dogs,  head  for  yonder  hill, 
come  down  the  ravine  here  upon  our  right,  and  at  the 
fence  here  within  plain  view  he  will  attempt  a  trick  that 
has  heretofore  always  been  successful  and  which  has  given 
him  his  reputation  as  a  trained  fox.  I  depend  upon  the 
intelligence  of  Flora  to  see  through  'Old  Sandy's'  strategy, 
but  if  she  hesitates  a  moment  we  must  set  the  dogs  right." 

I  speak  with  the  confidence  of  one  having  experience, 
and  Miss  de  Compton  smiles  and  is  content.  We  have  time 
for  little  further  conversation,  for  in  a  few  minutes  I 
observe  a  dark  shadow  emerge  from  the  undergrowth  on 
the  opposite  hill  and  slip  quickly  across  the  open  space  of 
fallow  land.  It  crosses  the  ravine  that  intersects  the  val 
ley  and  steals  quietly  through  the  stubble  to  the  fence  and 
there  pauses  for  a  moment  as  if  hesitating.  In  a  low  voice 
I  call  Miss  de  Compton 's  attention  to  the  fox,  but  she  re 
fuses  to  believe  it  is  the  fox  we  aroused  thirty  minutes  ago. 
Howbeit,  it  is  the  veritable  "Old  Sandy"  himself.  I  would 
know  him  among  a  thousand  foxes.  He  is  not  in  as  fine 
feather  as  when  at  the  start  he  swung  his  brush  across 
Flora's  nose;  the  pace  has  told  on  him,  but  he  still  moves 
with  an  air  of  confidence.  Then  and  there  Miss  de  Comp 
ton  beholds  a  display  of  fox  tactics,  shrewd  enough  to  excite 
the  admiration  of  the  most  indifferent,  a  display  of  cunning 
that  seems  to  have  been  conceived  by  something  higher  than 
mere  instinct. 

"Old  Sandy"  pauses  a  moment.  With  a  bound  he  goes 
to  the  top  of  the  fence,  stops  to  pull  something  from  one 
of  his  forefeet  (probably  a  cockle  burr),  and  then,  care 
fully  balancing  himself,  proceeds  to  walk  the  fence.  By 
this  time  the  music  of  the  dogs  is  again  heard  in  the  dis 
tance,  but  "Old  Sandy"  takes  his  time.  One,  two,  three, 
seven,  ten,  twenty  panels  of  the  fence  are  cleared.  Paus 
ing,  he  again  subjects  his  forefeet  to  examination  and  licks 
them  carefully.  Then  he  proceeds  on  his  journey  along 
the  fence  until  he  is  at  least  one  hundred  yards  from  where 


280  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

he  left  the  ground.  Here  he  pauses  for  the  last  time, 
gathers  himself  together,  leaps  through  the  air,  and  is 
away.  As  he  does  so  the  full  music  of  the  pack  bursts 
upon  our  ears  as  the  hounds  reach  the  brow  of  the  hill 
from  the  lowlands  on  the  other  side. 

"Upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  Miss  de  Compton,  "that  fox 
ought  to  go  free.  I  shall  beg  Mr.  Tunison" — 

But  before  she  can  finish  her  sentence  the  dogs  come 
into  view,  and  I  can  hardly  restrain  a  desire  to  give  a  shout 
of  triumph  as  I  see  Flora  running  easily  and  unerringly 

far  to  the  front.  Behind  her,  led  by  Captain  and 

so  close  together  that,  as  Uncle  Plato  afterwards  remarked, 
"You  mout  kivver  de  whole  caboodle  wid  a  boss  blanket," 
are  the  remainder  of  the  Tunison  kennel,  while  the  Jasper 
hounds  are  strung  out  in  wild  but  heroic  confusion.  I  am 
strongly  tempted  to  give  the  vain,  halloo  and  push  "Old 
Sandy"  to  the  wall  at  once,  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  fair 
De  Compton  will  regard  the  exploit  with  severe  reproba 
tion  forever  after. 

Across  the  ravine  and  to  the  fence  they  come,  their 
voices  as  they  get  nearer  crashing  through  the  silence  like 
a  chorus  of  demons.  At  the  fence  they  pause.  Now  is  the 
critical  moment.  If  Flora  should  fail  me —  Several  of 
the  older  dogs  top  the  rails  and  scatter  through  the  under 
growth.  Flora  comes  over  with  them,  makes  a  small  circle, 
with  her  sensitive  nose  to  the  damp  earth,  and  then  goes 
rushing  down  the  fence  past  the  point  where  "Old  Sandy" 
took  his  flying  leap.  She  runs,  turns  suddenly  to  the  left, 
and  comes  swooping  back  in  a  wide  circle,  and  I  have  barely 
time  to  warn  Miss  de  Compton  that  she  must  prepare  to 
do  a  little  riding,  when  my  favorite,  with  a  fierce  cry  of 
delight  that  thrills  me  through  and  through,  picks  up  the 
blazing  drag,  and  away  we  go  with  a  scream  and  a  shout. 
I  feel  in  my  very  bones  that  "Old  Sandy"  is  doomed.  I 
have  never  seen  Flora  so  prompt  and  eager;  I  have  never 
known  the  scent  to  lie  better.  Everything  is  auspicious. 
We  go  like  the  wind,  Miss  de  Compton  rides  well,  and 
the  long  stretches  of  stubble  land  through  which  the  chase 
leads  are  unbroken  by  ditch  or  fence.  The  pace  of  the 
hounds  is  simply  terrific,  and  I  know  that  no  fox  on  earth 
can  long  stand  up  before  the  white  demon  that  leads  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  281 

hunt  with  such  fierce  splendor.  Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes 
we  rush  at  the  heels  of  the  rearmost  dogs,  until  suddenly 
we  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  pack.  The  scent  is 
lost!  Flora  runs  about  in  wild  circles,  followed  by  the 
greater  portion  of  the  dogs.  To  the  left,  to  the  right  they 
go,  until,  chancing  to  look  back,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  "Old 
Sandy,"  broken  down  and  bedraggled,  making  his  way 
toward  a  clump  of  briers.  He  has  played  his  last  trump 
and  lost.  Pushed  by  the  dogs,  he  has  dropped  in  his  tracks 
and  literally  allowed  them  to  run  over  him.  I  ride  at  him 
with  a  shout.  There  is  a  short,  sharp  race,  and  in  a  few 
moments  "La  Mort"  is  sounded  over  the  famous  fox  on 
the  horn  that  the  Jasper  County  boys  didn't  win. 

IV 

Dear  little  Carrie  Abercrombie,  your  note  is  answered ; 
and  if  the  writer  hereof  has  succeeded  in  entertaining  you 
and  worrying  the  rest  of  his  readers,  he  will  feel  amply 
repaid  for  the  trouble  he  has  occasioned  the  Editorial  Pres 
ence.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  told  that  the  fair  De 
Compton  became  Mrs.  Tunison,  but  such  a  statement,  little 
Carrie,  would  not  be  according  to  the  facts  of  the  case.  Of 
all  those  who  went  to  make  the  brilliant  pageant  that 
moved  merrily  over  the  hills  with  song  and  shout  and 
laughter  on  that  memorable  morning,  but  few  ever  met 
each  other  again.  Tom  Tunison,  gallant,  gifted,  and  true- 
hearted,  fell  at  the  battle  of  Griswoldville,  where  so  many 
noble  lives  were  needlessly  sacrificed.  Miss  de  Compton, 
I  am  told,  married  a  man  from  Texas,  who  didn't  treat  her 
well,  and  she  is  teaching  school  in  Mississippi.  The  others 
— but  why  not  drop  the  whole  matter  just  here?  It  is  not 
my  desire  to  pursue  the  reader,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
anything  further  in  this  line  would  be  construed  into  a 
willful  and  unjustifiable  attack.  J.  C.  H. 


Ill 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  ROCKVJLLE 

BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

[By  permission,  reproduced  from  the  files  of  the  Weekly  Con 
stitution,  April  16  to  September  10,  1878.] 

I1 

'As  to  the  Village 

To  write  accurately  or  even  adequately  of  Rockville,  one 
would  have  to  fall  into  the  idyllic  mood.  The  peace  and 
quiet  that  surrounded  the  little  village  were  immemorial 
and  the  serenity  complete.  Rockville  rhymed  with  all 
seasons,  and  each  rhyme  seemed  perfect  in  its  way.  In  the 
springtime  the  red  hills  robed  themselves  in  green,  the 
pines  clothed  themselves  anew,  and  the  mighty  oaks  put 
forth  their  leaves.  The  martins  flocked  musically  about 
the  eaves  of  the  white  courthouse,  the  dogwood  blossoms 
gleamed  white  and  fair  in  the  valleys,  and  the  peach  or 
chards  were  so  complete  in  their  beauty  as  to  suggest  to  the 
village  poet,  who  was  clerking  in  a  grocery  store,  the  idea 
that  they  had  been  subjected  to  a  fall  of  pink  snow,  an  idea 
which  he  embodied  in  a  poem  of  thirty-six  stanzas  printed 
in  the  Middle  Georgia  Vade  Mecum,  a  six-column  weekly 
devoted  (if  the  advertisement  of  Plunker,  the  editor,  was 
to  be  believed)  to  "literature,  art,  science,  and  the  news." 
The  schoolboys  waded  in  the  branch  that  skirted  the  town, 
catching  minnows  and  avoiding  moccasins  with  a  precision 
that  was  rather  a  tribute  to  their  instincts  than  to  their 
training.  The  bluebirds  flitted  hither  and  thither,  hunting 
homes  in  hollow  posts  and  trees,  and  the  robins,  flying 
northward,  paused  to  surfeit  themselves  with  the  ripe  china 

1Cartersville  Express:  "J.  C.  Harris,  of  the  Atlanta  Constitution, 
is  sick  with  measles.  >  The  consequence  is  that  the  'Romance  of 
Rockville'  will  not  begin  before  next  week.  Joe  ought  to  have  had 
measles  when  a  little  boy,  and  they  would  rot  be  troubling  him 
now  at  a  critical  point  in  his  literary  fame."  [Constitution  (Week 
ly),  April  16,  1878.] 

(282) 


Early  Literary  Efforts  283 

berries  that  grew  in  profusion  in  the  town.  This  was  in 
springtime. 

In  summer  the  inhabitants  of  Rockville  gave  themselves 
over  to  perspiration,  even  the  poet  deigning  to  appear  upon 
the  streets  without  his  coat.  The  cattle  forsook  the  open 
pastures  and  concealed  themselves  as  best  they  could  from 
the  observation  of  the  sun  by  taking  refuge  under  the  tall 
oaks  on  the  hillsides  or  browsing  carelessly  among  the 
elder  bushes  and  willows  on  the  brookside.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  some  verbal  critic,  following  with  some  degree 
of  pains  this  unpretentious  chronicle,  will  smile  when  he 
reads  of  "elder  bushes" ;  but  I  confidently  appeal  to  the  pop 
gun  brigade  of  the  present  generation  to  bear  me  out  in  the 
spelling.  This  was  in  summer  time. 

In  autumn  the  hickory  trees  changed  from  green  to 
golden  yellow,  the  sweet  gum  shone  red  in  the  forest,  and 
among  the  pines  could  be  seen  an  occasional  sentinel  of  the 
season  clad  in  sober  russet.  The  chestnut  faded  out  utterly, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  dogwood  glowed  as  though  a  torch 
had  been  lighted  in  the  deep,  dark  woods. 

I  suppose  that  other  places  were  as  rhythmically  set  to 
the  seasons  as  Rockville,  but  it  is  next  to  impossible  to 
believe  it;  and  as  for  the  people,  I  am  quite  sure  that  no 
other  Georgia  town  had  its  Bledsoes,  its  Spiveys,  its  Bag- 
leys,  and  its  Padgetts,  and  I  am  sure,  moreover,  that  no 
other  village  in  all  this  wide  world  had  its  Miss  Ferryman, 
its  Mrs.  Pruitt,  its  Mrs.  Padgett,  or  its  Mrs.  Dusenberry. 
I  say  this  advisedly. 

But  for  all  this,  it  is  almost  too  absurd  to  believe  that 
Rockville  ever  had  a  romance  of  any  sort,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  title  that  I  have  affixed  to  this  rambling  and 
disconnected  chronicle  is  not  in  some  degree  an  exaggera 
tion  intended  to  entrap  the  unwary  reader;  for  of  all  vil 
lages  in  the  universe  Rockville  would  be  the  least  likely 
to  have  a  romance  or  anything  bordering  thereupon.  Save 
upon  sale  days,  when  the  Wards,  the  Fullers,  the  Caswells, 
and  the  Dawsons  rode  carelessly  into  town  and,  tying  their 
horses  to  the  various  convenient  racks  about  the  public 
square,  proceeded  to  fire  upon  each  other  from  behind  con 
venient  corners  and  eligible  tree  corners,  Rockville  was  the 
quietest  place  imaginable.  As  I  have  said,  its  serenity  was 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

immemorial,  for  it  would  ill  become  me  as  a  dignified 
chronicler  to  dwell  upon  or  even  to  take  into  consideration 
the  family  feuds  of  the  Wards  and  the  Dawsons.  They 
were  fierce  enough,  heaven  knows,  and  deadly  enough,  but 
neither  their  foolish  causes  nor  their  deadly  results  dis 
turbed  the  peace  of  Rockville.  Nor  was  this  pastoral  re 
pose  broken  by  the  utilitarian  devices  of  the  present  age. 
Neither  the  hiss  of  steam  nor  the  roar  of  machinery  was 
heard.  The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  would  have  thrown 
the  community  into  convulsions,  and  the  setting  up  of  a 
barber's  sign  would  in  all  probability  have  resulted  in  an 
indignation  meeting.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  in  1848 
the  barber  had  been  invented ;  certainly  not,  so  far  as  Rock 
ville  was  concerned.  There  were  hair  dressers,  to  be  sure, 
but  the  man  with  the  razor  was  unknown  to  the  civiliza 
tion  of  the  little  town. 

What  is  now  called  the  Rockville  Hotel  was  then  known 
as  Bagley's  Tavern ;  and  albeit  it  might  be  policy  to  admit 
that  the  name  has  been  improved  as  to  euphony,  Mr.  Bag- 
ley  himself  will  tell  you,  should  you  chance  to  meet  him, 
that  it  is  not  at  all  safe  that  the  seasoning  of  the  soup  is 
one  whit  more  artistic  as  to  accuracy  and  timeliness,  or,  to 
use  Mr.  Bagley's  own  expression,  "puttin'  paint  on  the 
roof  didn't  whitewash  the  cellar."  You  will  be  introduced 
to  Bagley  later  on,  but  in  the  meantime  you  must  take  my 
word  for  it  that  he  was  what  the  boys  around  town  called 
a  character.  The  Middle  Georgia  Vade  Mecum  has  also 
changed  its  name,  after  an  interval  of  long  suspension ;  but 
it  is  by  no  means  sure  that  Col.  Pontius  Bogardus,  who 
now  edits  it,  is  a  more  conscientious  guide  of  public  opin 
ion  or  a  safer  counselor  of  the  nation  than  the  amiable 
Plunker,  who  was  one  of  the  pioneer  journalists  of  his  day. 
A  daily  train  of  cars  has  taken  the  place  of  the  stagecoach 
that  connected  Rockville  with  the  outside  world,  but  I  am 
inclined  to  doubt  whether  this  mode  of  communication  is 
more  satisfactory  than  that  afforded  by  the  big  red  coach 
and  the  spanking  four-in-hand  that  John  Bell  used  to  drive. 

In  a  word,  Rockville  in  1848  was  as  thoroughly  provin 
cial  as  isolation  could  make  it  and  as  thoroughly  satisfied 
with  itself.  For  the  rest,  it  had  a  church — a  union  church 
— which  was  the  pride  of  the  village,  and  two  good  schools 


Early  Literary  Efforts  185 

whose  fame  had  gone  abroad,  attracting  pupils  from  all 
sections.  The  first  in  importance,  as  far  as  I  can  gather 
from  the  files  of  the  Vade  Me  cum,  still  preserved  in  the 
office  of  the  ordinary,  was  the  male  academy  presided  over 
by  William  Wornum.  The  female  academy  was  under  the 
supervision  of  Miss  Kate  Underwood,  a  lady  who  had  ven 
tured  to  leave  her  home  in  Vermont  for  the  purpose  of  re 
claiming  the  people  of  the  South  from  the  heathenism  in 
which  she  had  been  taught  to  believe  they  languished. 
Her  notions  with  respect  to  the  barbarism  of  the  people 
among  whom  she  had  cast  her  lot  underwent  a  speedy 
change,  and  she  established  a  school  for  girls  that  became 
renowned  for  the  thoroughness  of  its  discipline  and  the 
completeness  of  its  curriculum.  In  forgetting  her  mission 
she  but  made  it  the  more  complete,  managing  in  a  motherly 
sort  of  way  to  infuse  into  her  pupils  something  of  the  New 
England  thrift  and  energy  characteristic  of  her  race  and 
training. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Rockville  was  well  satisfied  with 
itself,  and  some  of  the  leading  citizens  even  looked  for 
ward  to  the  day  when  their  interests  would  be  uplifted 
upon  a  wave  of  progress.  Precisely  from  what  direction 
this  wave  would  flow  was  not  a  subject  of  calculation 
among  the  sages  and  the  prophets  who  gathered  on  the 
street  corners  every  day  or  who  congregated  around  the 
stove  in  Floyd's  bar,  which,  I  have  omitted  to  mention,  was 
one  of  the  institutions  of  the  place. 

II 

The  Boy  in  the  Tree 

The  springtime  dropped  suddenly  upon  Rockville,  crept 
up  in  a  night,  as  it  seemed,  and  filled  the  town  with  swollen 
buds  and  bursting  blossoms  and  sprinkled  an  indefinable 
odor  of  new  life  and  freshness  upon  the  sweet,  cool  air  of 
the  morning.  When  I  say  that  spring  crept  up  on  Rock 
ville  in  a  night,  I  speak  literally,  for  it  took  Miss  Jane 
Ferryman  by  surprise,  and  those  who  lived  in  Rockville 
in  1848  and  remember  her  bustling  ways,  her  trenchant 
tongue,  and  her  active  charity  do  not  need  to  be  told  that 
spring  was  a  very  subtle  season  if  it  found  Miss  Jane  un- 


286  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

prepared;  and  yet  this  particular  spring  had  slipped  down 
from  the  sun  with  such  surprising  quietness  that  when 
Miss  Jane  came  out  one  morning,  broom  in  hand,  and 
found  that  the  china  trees  in  front  of  her  gate  had  taken 
unto  themselves  various  severe  symptoms  of  greenness  she 
was  seized  with  a  horrible  suspicion  that  age  was  dulling 
her  observation,  for  the  brown  hair  that  the  breeze  man 
aged  to  blow  loose  from  the  prim  tucking  comb  was  largely 
mingled  with  gray.  This  suspicion  was  verified  when  Miss 
Jane  came  to  inspect  her  violet  bed,  for  scattered  here  and 
there,  hidden  by  the  leaves,  she  found  more  than  one 
modest  little  witness,  testifying  by  its  odorous  presence  to 
the  fact  that  some  occult  influence  had  made  itself  felt. 
Discovering  these  things,  Miss  Jane  leant  upon  her  broom 
a  moment  and  locked  first  at  the  budding  trees  and  then 
at  the  far  blue  sky.  In  a  china  tree  near  at  hand  a  mocking 
bird,  stirred  by  some  mysterious  impulse  of  the  season, 
gave  a  premonitory  whistle  and  then  broke  forth  into  a 
matchless  melody;  while  in  the  sky  a  swallow,  quivering 
and  twittering,  swept  swiftly  across  the  field  of  blue.  Be 
fore  Miss  Jane  could  adjust  her  spectacles  to  follow  the 
uncertain  flight  of  the  swallow,  a  yellow  butterfly,  darting 
hither  and  thither  as  though  perplexed  with  the  newness  of 
things,  lit  upon  the  wall  of  the  little  cottage  just  where  the 
sun  shone  brightest  and  then  proceeded  with  great  ap 
parent  satisfaction  to  fold  and  unfold  its  wonderful  wings, 
as  if  by  that  process  it  would  catch  a  larger  supply  of  the 
warmth  that  seemed  to  be  wasting  in  the  cool  shadows  that, 
drifting  around  this  one  spot  of  brightness  in  wavy  suc 
cessions,  made  it  in  some  sort  an  island  of  sunshine.  But 
the  fact  that  the  sun  had  found  Miss  Jane  in  bed  gave  her 
some  excuse  for  resenting  the  perplexing  forwardness  of 
the  season,  and  she  gave  vent  to  her  vexation  by  address 
ing  the  butterfly:  "I  lay  ef  I  fetch  you  a  swipe  with  this 
broom  you  won't  be  lightin'  round  here  to  do  your  nocldinV 
But  the  domestic  weapon  which  Miss  Jane  poised  in  the 
air  did  not  descend.  Just  at  that  moment  a  bee,  coaxed 
into  the  sunlight  by  the  exceeding  graciousness  of  the 
weather,  flittered  into  the  porch  and  hovered  a  moment  in 
a  languid  and  despondent  manner  among  the  unfruitful 
vines  that  clambered  to  the  roof  of  the  little  cottage.  Some- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  287 

how  or  other  the  noise  of  the  bee  arrested  the  attention  of 
Miss  Jane.  It  carried  her  back  to  the  days  when  she  used  to 
hunt  for  honeysuckles  somewhere  on  the  banks  of  the 
Oconee,  and  the  broom  that  had  been  raised  to  demolish 
the  butterfly  was  stayed  and  fell  harmlessly  to  the  floor. 
In  a  moment  Miss  Jane  had  forgotten  both  butterfly  and 
bee,  for  just  across  the  narrow  street,  shaded  by  china- 
berry  trees,  was  a  new  sign  staring  her  in  the  face.  It  had 
gone  up  in  a  night.  Never  before  did  anything  occur  in 
Rockville  without  previously  coming  to  the  knowledge  of 
Miss  Jane,  but  here  was  the  sign  in  plain  view,  "D.  Vander- 
lyn,  Gunmaker."  Miss  Jane  regarded  it  with  astonishment, 

"Much  we  want  with  gunmakers,  I  reckon.  Nobody 
roun'  here  lacks  fer  a  gun  'cept  it's  George  McHenry,  an* 
he's  a  born  loony." 

But  the  sign  was  there,  whatever  Miss  Jane  might  say. 
It  was  a  tin  sign,  too,  neatly  painted  and  swung  easily  in 
the  cool  breeze  that  somewhat  tempered  the  balminess  of 
the  spring  morning.  Miss  Jane  was  really  puzzled.  The 
shop  was  a  new  establishment,  so  far  as  her  knowledge 
was  concerned,  and  the  business  of  gunmaking,  she  was 
willing  to  vow,  having  lived  in  the  village  for  nearly  thirty 
years,  was  a  novelty  in  Rockville ;  but  the  fact  that  the 
occupant  thereof  had  moved  in,  bag  and  baggage,  and  put 
up  his  sign  without  once  attracting  her  attention  or  that  of 
her  neighbors  was  a  source  of  great  perplexity  to  the  vet 
eran  maiden,  and  she  stood  staring  at  the  phenomenon  with 
unusual  interest.  She  had  one  consolation,  however. 
Neither  Mrs.  Pruitt,  the  mantaumaker,  nor  Mrs.  Dusen- 
berry,  the  little  tailor's  wife,  knew  anything  about  the  mat 
ter;  and  what  they  didn't  know,  Miss  Jane  inwardly  re 
marked,  "nobody  else  needn't  try  to  find  out."  While  Miss 
Jane  was  thus  standing,  wondering  how  a  new  inhabitant 
could  have  settled  in  Rockville  without  her  knowledge,  the 
bee,  buzzing  around  the  little  porch  in  a  benumbed  and  be 
wildered  way,  struck  the  defiantly  poised  broom  and  fell  to 
the  floor,  where,  li.ehting  upon  its  back,  it  vainly  endeavored 
to  clutch  the  air  with  its  feet.  This  aroused  Miss  Jane. 

"Well,  the  Lord  'a'  massy !  Nobodv  can't  never  have  any 
peace.  In  the  winter  you  are  freezin'  to  death,  and  when 
warm  weather  comes  it's  as  much  as  you  kin  do  to  keep 


288  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  bees  and  the  bugs  outen  your  years.  But  I  lay  I'll  fix 
you." 

But  she  didn't  carry  out  her  purpose.  Just  at  that  mo 
ment  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  overhead  called 
out :  "Ef  you  fool  with  that  fellow  much,  you'll  have  to 
tote  a  poultice  around." 

It  was  not  an  unpleasant  voice,  and  for  a  wonder  Miss 
Jane  was  not  startled.  Looking  up,  she  caught  sight  of  a 
boy  nestling  and  swinging  in  the  topmost  branches  of  the 
china-berry  tree  in  front  of  the  porch.  If  Miss  Jane  had  an 
aversion  upon  earth,  it  was  the  small  boy,  and  the  sight  of 
this  particular  youth  caused  her  wonder  to  culminate  in 
genuine  vexation. 

"Come  right  down  from  thar  this  minnit !  I  ain't  gwine 
to  have  my  trees  broke  down.  I'll  holler  for  Uncle  Ben 
ef  you  don't  move.  Whatter  you  doin'  up  thar,  anyhow?'* 

"O,  I'm  jest  a-lookin'  at  the  birds.  I  ain't  doing  no 
damage." 

It  was  a  bright,  pleasant,  laughing  face  that  the  boy 
turned  on  Miss  Jane  as  he  replied,  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  did  not  in  some  degree  take  the  edge  off  her  anger;  but 
if  she  was  at  all  mollified,  it  was  not  apparent  in  her  tone : 
"Yes,  you  are  doin'  damage,  an'  the  fus'  thing  you  know 
that  lim'll  break,  an'  you'll  git  your  chunk  knocked  out/' 

Miss  Jane  was  not  particularly  fond. of  children.  She 
had  little  or  no  sympathy  with  the  spirit  of  perverse  humor 
that  prompted  the  average  small  boy  to  trample  upon  flower 
beds,  rob  birds'  nests,  and  make  himself  ridiculously  ruin 
ous  in  the  several  and  various  directions  suggested  by  his 
extraordinary  ingenuity.  Upon  one  memorable  occasion 
the  Rockville  small  boy  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  make 
a  raid,  and  a  very  disastrous  one,  upon  Miss  Jane's  berga- 
mot  bed,  and  her  primroses  and  oleanders  had  likewise 
suffered.  From  that  moment  Miss  Jane  declared  open  war 
against  the  whole  tribe  of  small  boys,  and  her  reputation 
for  ferocity  was  widespread. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any  trees  broke  up  an'  tore  down 
by  nobody,  much  less  by  you  young  rapscallions.  Ef  you 
don't  come  down,  I'll  call  Mr.  Wornum.  You  forgot  he 
was  boarding  here,  I  reckon." 

Miss  Jane  was  so  accustomed  to  ignore  the  boys  with 


Early  Literary  Efforts  289 

whom  she  came  in  contact  that  they  were  like  a  herd  of 
bay  horses  to  her,  all  bad  and  all  alike.  She  concluded, 
therefore,  that  the  brat  who  was  perched  amid  the  budding 
greenness  of  her  china  tree  was  one  of  the  pupils  of  Wil 
liam  Wornum,  principal  of  the  Rockville  Male  Academy. 

"I  was  jes'  comin'  over  to  see  him,"  responded  the  boy 
laughingly;  "but  it  looked  so  nice  up  here  that  I  thought 
I'd  climb  up  here  an*  set  in  the  sun." 

Miss  Jane  was  not  as  angry  as  she  supposed  she  would 
be,  but  she  kept  up  the  pretense. 

"Well,  you'll  see  'im  soon  enough  fer  your  good,  I 
reckon,"  she  said  and  swept  indignantly  into  the  house. 

"She's  goin'  to  fetch  him  out  now/'  the  boy  said,  laughing 
outright,  "and  raise  a  rumpus.  But  ef  he  gits  to  kickin' 
too  high,  I  guess  Dan'll  cool  'im  off." 

It  appeared  to  the  bright-eyed  chap  who  sat  in  his  high 
perch,  swinging  his  feet  thoughtfully  in  the  fresh  air  of 
the  morning,  that  Miss  Jane  was  a  long  time  on  her  errand. 
Presently,  however,  he  heard  voices  in  the  house,  Miss 
Jane's  sharp  tones  mingling  with  a  man's  pleasant  voice. 

"He's  a-settin'  up  thar,"  Miss  Jane  was  saying,  "jes'  as 
sassy  as  ef  he  owned  the  place."  Then  they  both  came  out, 
and  the  boy  beheld  the  man  who,  above  all  others,  was  to 
mold  and  fashion  his  life — William  Wornum,  schoolmaster. 
He  was  a  tall,  serious-looking  man,  but  this  appearance  of 
gravity  was  the  result  rather  of  the  thoughtfulness  of  the 
face  than  of  any  peculiarity  of  temper.  Consequently  when 
he  lifted  his  eyes,  glancing  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
Miss  Jane's  threatening  forefinger,  and  saw  the  smiling  face 
of  the  youthful  culprit,  he  burst  out  laughing — a  very 
pleasant  laugh,  the  boy  thought — and  said :  "Well,  upon  my 
word,  Miss  Jane,  I  think  the  boy  ought  to  receive  praise 
instead  of  blame!  Not  a  boy  in  my  school  could  clamber 
to  that  perch.  What  is  your  name,  young  man  ?" 

"Jack  Vanderlyn,"  replied  the  boy,  blushing  like  a  girl. 

"Well,  John  Vanderlyn"— 

"But  Dan  calls  me  Jack." 

"And  pray  who  is  Dan?" 

"Don't  you  know  Dan?  Why,  we've  been  in  town  more'n 
a  week,  Dan  an'  me  is.  That's  Dan's  store,"  pointing  in 
the  direction  of  the  swaying  tin  sign  that  had  attracted  the 
19 


290  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

notice  of  Miss  Jane.  With  the  intuition  natural  to  children 
and  to  dumb  animals,  he  had  already  caught  and  gauged 
the  gentleness  of  the  schoolmaster  and  appreciated  as  only 
a  boy  can  the  whimsical  humor  that  characterized  William 
Wornum.  "I  jes'  started  to  go  in  an'  see  you,  but  I  was 
afeared  er  rouzin'  the  house,  an'  so  I  thought  I'd  sorter  wait 


roun 

(4 


I  hope,"  said  the  schoolmaster  with  great  apparent 
seriousness,  "that  you  didn't  expect  to  find  me  roosting  in 
the  tree?" 

"O,  goodness  no!  But  you  might  fine  wus'  places. 
Many  a  time  Dan  an'  me  would  'a'  felt  mighty  good  ef 
we  could  V  found  a  tree  like  this  'ere." 

"I  know'd  he  wuz  a  heathen/'  replied  Miss  Jane  with 
unction.  "I  know'd  it  the  minnit  I  sot  eyes  on  him." 

"Yes/'  said  the  schoolmaster;  "but  you  must  remember 
that  the  heathen  have  given  us  our  greatest  philosophers." 

"Well,  ef  I  wuz  you,  William  Wornum,  I  wouldn't  make 
fun  of  the  child/'  said  Miss  Jane,  suddenly  changing  her 
tone  and  her  tactics. 

William  Wornum  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  his 
landlady.  He  was  used  to  her  eccentricities  of  temper,  but 
something  in  her  voice  arrested  his  attention;  and  as  he 
glanced  quickly  at  the  worn,  trouble-scarred  face  before 
him  he  thought  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  like 
tenderness  in  the  sharp,  shrewd  eyes,  and  he  was  certain 
that  she  looked  at  the  boy  and  smiled,  a  bright  but  weary 
smile,  as  it  seemed  to  the  schoolmaster. 

Who  shall  solve  for  us  the  mystery  of  children's  faces? 
Rough  men — miners  and  convicts — have  been  known  to 
fall  a-weeping  at  the  sight  of  a  child's  face,  and  most  of 
us,  I  imagine,  have  been  thrilled  through  and  through  with 
emotions  similar,  but  less  acute.  Somehow  or  other  the 
laughing  face  of  the  little  boy,  framed  in  the  green  leaves 
of  the  china  tree,  reminded  Miss  Jane  most  vividly  of  a 
time  when  she  too  was  young  and  hopeful,  when  hand  in 
hand  with  a  fair,  brave  youth  she  wandered  through  the 
glad  green  land.  The  youth  who  had  wandered  with  Miss 
Jane  and  who  came  back  to  her  now  as  a  vision  had  died 
years  before.  His  dearest  friends  had  forgotten  him,  and 
even  Miss  Jane  had  ceased,  save  in  a  vague  way,  to  clothe 


Early  Literary  Efforts  291 

his  memory  with  regret;  but  to-day  in  some  mysterious 
manner  the  face  of  the  wayward  boy  of  whom  she  desired 
the  schoolmaster  to  make  an  example  brought  back  to  her 
mournfully  pleasant  memories  of  the  olden  time. 

'1  am  far  from  making  fun  of  this  youth,  Miss  Jane," 
said  the  schoolmaster.  "I  was  merely  gloating  over  the 
fact  that  we  have  captured  him.  He  is  ours.  It  is  impossi 
ble  for  him  to  escape.  What  shall  we  do  with  him  ?" 

"Let  'im  alone.  Goodness  knows  it  consolation  'nuff  to 
know't  he  ain't  one  o'  the  nasty  pack  that  sets  up  in  your 
schoolhouse  an'  hatches  devilment  day  in  an*  day  out." 

The  schoolmaster  smiled.  "Go,  John  Vanderlyn,"  said  he 
in  a  semi-tragic  voice.  "You  have  trespassed  most  grossly 
upon  the  premises  of  this  lady  here,  but  she  pardons  you." 

"Gracious  me,  William  Wornum !  Folks  a-goin'  by'd 
take  you  for  a  nateral-born  lunatic.  Come  down,  Vandler- 
min,  or  whatever  your  name  is.  Yon  ain't  kilt  the  tree,  I 
reckon." 

"Lor',  no'm !  Dan  says  I'm  as  light  as  a  feather  an* 
swift  as  a  bird." 

"Dan's  a  loony,"  remarked  Miss  Jane  sententiously. 

"It  is  my  opinion,  young  man,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
smiling  one  of  his  most  serious  smiles,  "that  you  have  fal 
len  among  enemies  who  are  friends  in  disguise ;  and  if 
mine  eyes  deceive  me  not,  you  will  soon  find  out  their 
various  weaknesses." 

"I  told  Dan  I  was  comin'  over  to  see  the  school-teacher, 
but  it  looked  like  to  me  it  was  too  soon,  an'  so  I  jes'  thought 
I'd  git  up  here  an'  play  like  I  was  a  jay  bird." 

"Well,  upon  my  soul,"  replied  the  schoolmaster  in  a  tone 
that  irritated  Miss  Jane,  "your  masquerade  is  wonderfully 
lifelike.  You  lack  the  wings,  the  feathers,  and  the  remark 
able  topknot  of  the  blue  jay,  but  I  dare  say  you  are  capa 
ble  of  kicking  up  quite  as  much  of  a  rumpus.  They  are 
vociferous  enough  when  they  choose  to  be,  these  jay  birds." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  the  bov  seriously.  "A  jay 
bird  lit  right  here  on  this  limb  awhile  ago,  an'  he  didn't 
squall  much.  He  sorter  ruffled  hisself  up,  but  he  didn't 
flutter  roun'  like  he  was  skeered." 

"He  wasn't  one  of  Miss  Jane's  kind  of  birds,"  remarked 
the  schoolmaster  with  such  serious  emphasis  as  to  exasper- 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ate  his  landlady;  "otherwise  your  eyes  would  have  been 
pecked  out  and  your  clothes  torn  off." 

"That  child  don't  know  when  you  are  jokin/  William 
Wornum,"  Miss  Jane  said  in  her  most  threatening  tone. 

"If  you  will  fly  down  from  your  perch,  Jack,"  remarked 
the  schoolmaster,  pretending  to  ignore  Miss  Jane's  asperity, 
"if  you  will  drop  to  the  commonplace  level  of  humanity, 
we  can  have  a  talk  together.  I  believe  you  said  you  wanted 
to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  sliding  swiftly  down  the  rough 
trunk  of  the  tree.  "Dan  said  he  reckon  I  better  come  over 
an'  see  you." 

in 

The  Boy  and  the  Man 

The  schoolmaster  was  bent  upon  taking  his  usual  morn 
ing  exercise,  and  the  two — the  man,  who  was  still  a  boy, 
and  the  boy,  who  was  longing  to  become  a  man — passed 
up  the  street  together.  Once  the  boy  turned  and  smiled  at 
Miss  Jane  as  she  stood  watching  them  from  the  porch — 
a  smile  so  fresh  and  bright  that  it  stirred  all  the  motherly 
instincts  in  the  heart  that  throbbed  so  warmly  and  kindly 
beneath  the  weather-beaten  bosom  of  the  sharp-tongued 
old  lady  who  made  cynicism  the  shield  of  her  sensitiveness. 

Jack  never  forgot  his  morning's  walk  v.'ith  the  school 
master,  and  William  Wornum  frequently  recurred  to  it 
afterwards.  It  was  in  some  sort  the  opening  of  a  new  life 
to  both.  To  the  boy  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  new,  strange, 
and  varied  experience;  while  to  the  man  it  afforded  a  rare 
opportunity  of  studying  the  perplexing  problem  presented 
in  the  wayward  frankness  and  freshness  of  a  boy's  nature. 
The  streets  of  Rockville  began  in  the  public  square  which 
surrounded  the  courthouse,  but  they  did  not  end  there. 
They  led  out  of  the  little  village  and  soon  became  public 
highways  or  footpaths,  sometimes  running  through  long 
green  lanes,  upon  whose  fragrant  verge  the  Cherokee  roses 
blossomed,  and  then  apparently  lost  themselves  in  the  cool, 
green  depths  of  the  great  woods.  Taking  one  of  these,  the 
boy  and  the  schoolmaster  wandered  out  of  the  village  to 
the  open  fields  beyond.  The  schoolmaster  was  a  close 
observer  and  enjoyed  nature  in  all  her  variable  moods  with 


Early  Literary  Efforts  293 

the  keenest  appreciation,  but  he  discovered  that  the  boy's 
observation  was  closer  and  his  appreciation  far  keener. 
He  found  a  bunch  of  blossoming  sheep  sorrel  and  formed 
a  pretty  little  bouquet  of  the  delicate  yellow  flowers  and 
endeavored  to  show  his  companion  a  rabbit  in  her  form ;  but 
this  was  an  impossible  task,  the  schoolmaster  refusing  to 
believe  that  such  a  sight  was  within  the  range  of  his  vision 
until  Jack  with  a  rush  and  a  hurrah  compelled  the  fright 
ened  animal  to  leave  her  cover,  which  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  their  feet. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  the  schoolmaster  was  in  no  hurry 
to  leave  the  fields  and  the  woods,  and  so  he  wandered  on 
with  the  boy,  answering  his  eager  questions  and  enjoying 
his  enthusiastic  comments. 

"Dan's  been  gittin'  after  me  like  brinjer,"  said  the  boy 
after  awhile.  "He  says  I  am  growin'  up  like  an  Arab,  but 
he's  afeard  to  send  me  to  school  'cause  the  boys  might 
sorter  come  it  over  me." 

"Might  do  what?"  asked  the  schoolmaster,  slightly 
amazed. 

"Might  sorter  come  it  over  me.  That's  what  Dan  says. 
Might  sorter  git  the  inturn  on  me,  you  know.  An'  Dan  he 
told  me  to  come  an'  see  how  I'd  like  you  fer  a  teacher." 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  asked  the  school-teacher, 
amused  at  the  frankness  of  the  boy. 

"O,  I  didn't  say  much.  I  jes'  told  Dan  it  was  like  crip- 
plin'  a  feller  to  shet  'im  up  in  a  little  schoolroom  all  day. 
I'd  git  sick  before  we  got  to  a-b,  ab." 

"And  then  Dan — this  Dan  of  yours — what  did  he  say 
to  this?" 

"Well,  Dan  he  said  some  roosters  were  sech  high  flyers 
they  had  to  be  clipped  sometimes.  Dan  goes  on  lots.  He 
said  when  a  chicken's  wings  got  too  big  it  was  always 
found  in  somebody  else's  collard  patch." 

The  earnestness  of  the  boy  struck  the  schoolmaster,  and 
he  laughed  so  heartily  that  the  boy  presently  joined  in, 
and  such  a  chorus  as  they  set  to  echoing  among  the  reso 
nant  avenues  of  the  forest  had  not  been  heard  there  for 
many  and  many  a  day.  A  ground  squirrel,  lurking  near, 
like  a  shadow  shot  scross  the  opening  and  dived  headlong 
into  his  hole,  and  a  sage  crow  that  had  been  swinging  in 


294  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  topmost  bough  of  a  tall  pine,  watching  the  twain  sus 
piciously,  darted  awkwardly  into  the  air  with  loud  cries, 
satisfied,  no  doubt,  that  a  brace  of  lunatics  were  making 
themselves  merry  in  the  wood ;  for,  in  the  experience  of 
crows,  it  must  be  remembered  the  wise  man  carries  a  gun 
and  seldom  smiles.  Howbeit,  it  may  well  be  supposed  that 
if  there  had  been  even  the  slightest  suggestion  of  powder 
in  the  conversation  between  the  man  and  the  boy,  it  would 
never  have  been  overheard  by  the  cautious  crow. 

"Well,  this  Dan  of  yours  is  a  philosopher,  if  you  report 
him  correctly,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "I  mean,"  remem 
bering  that  he  was  talking  to  an  ignorant  boy,  "I  mean 
that  Dan  is  pretty  well  acquainted  with  people." 

"An*  I  tole  Dan,"  continued  the  boy  as  though  nothing 
had  occurred  to  interrupt  the  conversation,  "that  I  didn't 
want  to  set  up  in  one  o'  them  close  rooms ;  an'  he  ast  me 
how  I  was  goin'  to  learn  to  cipher  an'  talk  big,  an'  I  tole 
'im  I'd  ketch  you  out  some  day,  an'  you  could  tell  me  all 
you  know  'thout  bein'  shet  up." 

William  Wornum,  with  all  his  eccentricities,  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  sensitive  man,  and  he  looked  at  the  child  in 
amazement.  It  came  to  him  in  the  shape  of  a  rebuke,  and 
he  received  it  as  such.  He  had  been  toiling  with  books 
and  loitering  through  the  temple  of  knowledge  for  years, 
and  yet  here  a  child  was  saying,  and  saying  truly,  that  he 
could  tell  all  he  knew  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours'  talk. 
In  spite  of  himself,  the  thought  oppressed  him. 

"Jack,"  said  the  schoolmaster  somewhat  sadly,  "you 
know  as  much  as  I  do." 

"I  don't  know  nothin',"  answered  the  boy." 

"Whereas  I,"  responded  William  Wornum,  "do  know 
nothing." 

"Well,  what  must  I  tell  Dan?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Say  to  Dan  that  learning  is  a  humbug." 

"But  it  ain't,  you  know ;  and  Dan  'd  give  me  such  an 
other  rakin'  over  the  coals  as  a  boy  never  got  before." 

"Have  you  a  mother?"  asked  the  schoolmaster  after 
awhile." 

"Nobody  but  Dan,"  the  boy  replied  simply. 

William  Wornum  looked  at  the  child  and  fell  to  musing. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  295 

He  thought  it  was  such  a  pity  that  such  a  bright-eyed, 
curly-haired,  quick-witted  little  boy  shouldn't  have  a 
mother,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  boy  as  for  the  sake 
of  the  mother.  It  would  be  a  great  source  of  pride  and 
gratification,  the  schoolmaster  thought,  to  some  good  wom 
an  to  pass  her  hand  gently  over  the  wayward  curls  of  this 
child  and  claim  him  as  her  own,  her  very  own.  For  in  all 
his  experience  with  children  he  had  never  met  with  one 
quite  so  unaffectedly  bright  and  precocious  as  this  bash 
ful,  ignorant  boy. 

"You  may  tell  this  Dan  of  yours,"  said  William  Wornum 
presently,  "'that  I  will  be  gla'd  to  teach  you,  not  the  little 
that  I  know,  but  the  great  deal  to  be  found  in  books,  and 
you  may  tell  him  that  my  schoolroom  is  not  such  a  tightly 
sealed  apartment  after  all." 

"O,  that  wasn't  Dan,"  the  boy  hastened  to  say.  "That 
was  me.  I  tole  Dan  I  didn't  want  to  be  shet  up." 

"Well,  said  the  schoolmaster,  rising  from  an  aromatic 
couch  of  brown  pine  tags,  "we  will  have  to  consult  with 
Dan  himself." 

Whereupon  the  man  and  the  boy  wandered  back  to  the 
village,  the  one  serious  and  thoughtful  and  the  other  gay 
and  communicative.  Suddenly  with  a  cry  of  "Vender's 
Dan  now !"  the  boy  rushed  off  up  the  road  to  meet  a  tall 
person,  who,  disdaining  the  services  of  a  coat  on  such  a 
morning,  was  walking  abroad  in  the  good  old  country 
fashion  that  prevailed  in  those  days  and  still  prevails  in 
the  provincial  regions.  The  schoolmaster  had  time  to 
observe  that  Dan  was  a  very  tall,  well-made  man,  a  little 
fluffy  about  the  face,  a  feature  that  seemed  to  add  some 
how  to  the  appearance  of  awkward  embarrassment  charac 
teristic  in  that  day  of  people  in  his  class.  He  wore  a  full 
beard,  and  his  mild  blue  eyes  contradicted  the  idea  of  pug 
nacity  suggested  by  his  large  limbs  and  massive  frame. 

"This  is  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  I  presume?"  said  the  school 
master  as  Jack  came  up  leading  the  giant  by  the  hand. 

"Yes,  squire.     Howdy." 

"I  have  just  been  walking  with  Jack,"  remarked  the 
schoolmaster,  "and  a  famous  morning  we  have  made  of  it 

"Jack's  been  tellin'  me.    He's  a  buster,  ain't  he,  squire? 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone  and  chuckling  a 


296  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

little.  "I  tell  folks  ez  soon's  I  see  urn,  sez  I,  'Gentlemen, 
you  wanter  keep  your  eyeballs  on  Tack.'  He's  a  rattler, 
Jack  is." 

By  this  time  Jack  was  far  ahead,  chasing  a  deceitful  yel 
low  butterfly  which  seemed  always  about  to  alight  on  some 
imaginary  flower.  The  mild-eyed  giant  watched  the  gyra 
tions  of  the  boy  and  insect  with  great  interest  as  he  went 
on  to  tell  the  schoolmaster  of  the  wonderful  peculiarities 
of  Jack. 

"He  is  your  only  son,  I  take  it,"  remarked  the  school 
master  with  an  air  of  interest  that  seemed  greatly  to  please 
Mr.  Vanderlyn,  for  he  became  more  enthusiastic  "than  ever. 

"Lor',  bless  yon,  yes !  He's  the  onliest,  and  he's  enough. 
Nobody  don't  want  but  one  boy  like  Jack.  Not  but  what 
he's  a  good  'un,  but  the  man  who  keeps  up  with  Jack  is 
gotter  git  up  mighty  quick  in  the  mornin'.  Ez  long  as  me 
an'  Jack  wuz  a-trampin'  an'  a-trollopin'  'roun'  I  could  sor 
ter  hold  my  own ;  but  when  I  concluded  for  to  settle  down 
and  do  like  the  balance  uv  the  white  people,  I  know'd 
sump'n  had  to  be  done.  But  you  won't  have  no  trouble 
with  Jack.  It  'ud  amaze  you  to  see  how  the  boy  kin  spell. 
Why,  he  sets  down  uv  nights  and  translates  all  'of  the  pic 
tures  in  the  books  right  straight  'long.  He's  a  caution." 

"I  observe  he  doesn't  call  you  'father/  "  said  the  school 
master. 

"Well,  I  reckon  not,"  replied  the  mild-eyed  giant  in  a 
triumphant  tone.  "I  reckon  not.  Me  an'  Jack's  had  too 
much  fun  together  fer  him  to  come  a-daddyin'  me.  It  ez 
as  much  ez  I  kin  do  fer  to  keep  the  boy  straight  now,  much 
less  ef  he  wuz  to  be  sneakin*  roun'  callin'  me  his  'pa'  an* 
denyin'  all  er  his  doin's.  Me  an'  Jack's  chums,"  continued 
this  queer  disciplinarian,  "an*  we  don't  have  no  secrets  from 
one  another.  Ef  Jack  goes  wrong,  he  comes  and  tells  me; 
and  ef  I  goes  wrong,  I  ups  and  tells  Jack.  But  he's  mighty 
wild,  that  boy,  and  I  bin  thinkin'  the  best  thing  I  could  do 
ud  be  to  shet  'im  up  like  an'  tie  'im  down  to  bizness.  Would 
you  mind  takin'  him  in  hand,  squire?" 

No,  the  schoolmaster  wouldn't  mind.  On  the  contrary, 
he  was  considerably  struck  with  the  peculiarities  which  dis 
tinguished  Jack  from  the  average  boy  and  was  glad  enough 


Early  Literary  Efforts  297 

to  "take  him  in  hand."  Whereupon  it  was  settled  that  Jack 
was  to  become  one  of  the  pupils  of  William  Wornum's 
school. 

By  this  time  the  two  had  nearly  reached  a  point  opposite 
Miss  Jane  Ferryman's  little  cottage,  when  they  came  upon 
Jack,  who  exclaimed  in  a  suppressed  voice :  "Look  yonder, 
Dan !" 

Dan  raised  his  eyes  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Jack 
and  beheld  a  vision  of  such  exquisite  loveliness  that  he  in 
voluntarily  poised  and  took  off  his  hat.  A  young  girl,  her 
golden  hair  falling  in  great  wavy  masses  below  her  waist, 
was  standing  on  Miss  Ferryman's  porch.  One  little  hand 
rested  upon  the  railing,  while  the  other  hung  carelessly  by 
her  side.  Her  features  were  as  perfect  and  as  clear-cut  as 
those  of  some  rare  old  cameo  and  as  serene  as  those  of  the 
Madonna.  The  sight  of  that  face  was  familiar  enough  to 
William  Wornum,  but  of  late  he  never  looked  upon  it  with 
out  a  thrill. 

"That  is  Miss  Nora  Ferryman,"  the  schoolmaster  said 
finally  by  way  of  explanation,  "Miss  Jane's  sister.  She  is 
blind?'  ' 

Vanderlyn  started  as  though  he  had  been  shot.  "Great 
God,  schoolmaster!  Blind?"  The  man  was  trembling  all 
over. 

"Yes,  sir,  blind,  totally  blind,"  the  schoolmaster  replied, 
regarding  the  gunmaker's  excitement  with  surprise. 

"Did  anybody  put  her*  eyes  out  with  a  piece  of  hot  iron?" 
asked  Vanderlyn  in  a  savage,  half-suppressed  whisper,  his 
eyes  blazing  like  two  coals.  The  schoolmaster  had  never 
seen  such  a  transformation,  and  he  was  inclined  to  believe 
for  a  moment  that  the  man  had  suddenly  become  insane. 
"Did  anybody  put  her  eyes  out  with  a  piece  of  hot  iron?" 
Vanderlyn  repeated.  "  'Cause  ef  they  did,  I  can  spot  the 
man  that  done  it." 

"No,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "She  has  never  been  other 
wise  than  blind.  Nor  is  she  to  be  pitied.  So  far  as  she  is 
concerned,  her  blindness  is  not  even  an  affliction." 

It  was  some  time,  however,  before  Vanderlyn  recovered 
from  his  excitement,  an  excitement  that  puzzled  William 
Wornum  greatly  and  that  continued  to  puzzle  him  for  years 
afterwards,  until  upon  a  memorable  occasion  in  the  annals 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  Rockville,  the  details  of  which  will  form  the  culmination 
of  this  hastily  written  chronicle,  everything  was  made  clear. 
It  may  be  added  here  that  the  schoolmaster  afterwards 
noted,  his  attention  having  been  called  to  the  fact  by  Tiny 
Padgett,  the  young  poet  to  whom  I  have  already  alluded, 
that  whenever  Miss  Nora  went  out  into  the  village,  as  she 
often  did,  threading  the  streets  as  easily  and  with  as  much 
facility  as  though  her  eyesight  was  of  the  best,  either  Dan 
or  his  son  Jack  was  sure  to  be  near.  The  schoolmaster 
had  good  reason  to  be  thankful  that  such  was  the  case,  for 
one  day  a  few  weeks  subsequently,  as  he  was  sitting  at 
Padgett's  corner  discussing  politics  with  the  veterans  of  the 
village,  some  one  cried  out :  "Good  God !  Look  yonder !" 

William  Wornum  looked  and  saw  Nora  Ferryman  cross 
ing  the  public  square  dangling  a  scarlet  scarf  upon  her  arm, 
while  Lem  Griffin's  black  cow,  a  vicious  beast  with  a  young 
calf,  was  charging  down  upon  her.  The  schoolmaster,  as, 
indeed,  did  all  who  witnessed  the  scene,  leaped  to  his  feet 
as  though  he  would  rush  to  the  rescue,  and  then  he  turned 
his  face  away  with  such  a  feeling  of  grief  and  horror  as 
he  had  never  before  experienced.  Then  he  heard  a  shout 
along  the  street,  and  General  Bledsoe,  who  was  standing 
near,  exclaimed  with  unwonted  energy:  "Damme,  gentle 
men,  that's  what  I  call  grit  and  muscle." 

When  the  schoolmaster  took  courage  to  look,  he  saw  the 
cow  stretched  upon  the  ground  with  Vanderlyn  sitting  upon 
her  neck,  while  Nora  stood  near,  the  very  incarnation  of 
beauty,  laughing  and  talking  with  the  hero  of  the  hour. 
Those  who  had  nerve  enough  to  witness  the  affair  say  that 
Vanderlyn  was  some  distance  from  the  scene  when  the  cow 
began  her  charge,  but  he  ran  like  a  deer  and  was  just  in 
time  to  jump  in  front  of  the  blind  girl  and  seize  the  animal 
by  the  horns.  The  struggle  was  a  short  one.  He  gave  the 
cow's  neck  a  sharp  twist,  and  she  went  over  as  though  she 
had  been  shot  and  lay  there  as  quietly  and  as  peacefully  as 
a  lamb.  When  the  young  lady  was  fairly  out  of  the  way, 
Vanderlyn  astonished  the  spectators,  who  ha'l  gathered  at 
a  respectful  distance,  by  turning  the  cow  loose  and  taking 
the  calf,  an  awkward,  shaky  thing-,  under  his  arm  and 
marching  out  of  town,  while  the  mother,  lately  so  ferocious, 
followed  in  a  trot. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  299 

IV 

Facing  the  Ladies 

As  the  schoolmaster  opened  the  gate  to  enter  Miss  Jane 
Ferryman's  yard,  the  lovely  vision  on  the  porch  turned  and 
smiled  upon  him.  She  knew  his  footstep,  and  as  he  neared 
the  porch  she  began  to  laugh  right  merrily,  a  ringing,  in 
fectious  laugh,  in  which  William  Wornum  joined  heartily 
without  exactly  knowing  why. 

"We  are  having  lots  of  fun  all  by  ourselves,  are  we 
not?"  said  the  schoolmaster  in  a  bantering  tone. 

"O  Mr.  Wornum,  they  are  all  here,"  said  the  girl,  still 
laughing — "the  Pruitts,  the  Padgets,  the  Bagleys,  and  even 
Miss  Underwood!  They  couldn't  stand  it.  They've  come 
to  inquire  about  the  new  man.  Do  come  in  and  help  sister 
out." 

"And  so  you  are  out  looking  for  reinforcements?"  It 
was  a  singular  fact  that  none  of  Nora  Ferryman's  friends 
ever  thought  of  her  blindness. 

"O  no!  I  just  ran  out  here  to  rest  my  ears.  They  are 
going  on  at  a  terrible  rate,  and  for  once  sister  Jane  is  at  her 
wit's  end.  Do  come  in." 

Nora  and  the  schoolmaster  entered  the  cozy  little  sitting 
room  together. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  ladies,"  said  William  Wornum. 

"Ah !  here  he  is  now,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bagley,  dipping  a 
stick  toothbrush  into  a  paper  of  snuff  and  transferring  it 
to  her  mouth.  "What  do  he  look  like,  Mr.  Wornum  ?" 

"Yas,"  said  Mrs.  Pruitt,  smiling  coquettishly  in  order  to 
show  her  false  teeth,  "we  want  to  know  what  kind  of  a 
lookin*  creetur  he  is.  We  axed  Jane,  but  Jane  vows  she 
ain't  seed  him." 

"May  I  ask  the  name  of  the  individual  you  are  inquiring 
after,  ladies?1'  queried  the  schoolmaster  with  great  apparent 
earnestness. 

''What  did  you  say  his  name  was,  Jane?  Hit's  some 
furrin'  name — Linderman  or  Landerham." 

"I  said  it  was  Vlandermin,"  said  Miss  Jane,  "an'  I  said 
he  wuzzent  no  great  shakes,  er  he  wouldn't  'a'  come  a-creep- 
in'  up  on  folks  in  a  night  like  this." 

"That's   a   fact,"   exclaimed  the   schoolmaster,   glancing 


300  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

around  upon  the  ladies  with  an  air  of  triumph.  'That's  a 
fact,  by  George !  The  fellow  did  creep  up  on  us  in  a  man 
ner,  didn't  he?  Why,  I  had  forgotten  that.  The  impudent 
wretch  didn't  even  deign  to  write  us  a  letter  and  tell  us 
when  he  was  coming  and  what  he  was  going  to  do.  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  investigate  this  matter." 

It  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  William  Wornum's 
character  that  his  acquaintances  would  have  been  shocked 
at  the  thought  that  he  ever  indulged  in  a  joke,  while  his 
intimate  friends  never  knew  when  he  was  in  a  serious 
mood.  Perhaps  Nora,  the  young  girl,  understood  him  best 
of  all,  and  even  her  keen  discrimination  was  sometimes  ut 
terly  at  a  loss  to  distinguish  between  the  schoolmaster's 
quaint  and  fantastic  humor  and  his  no  less  eccentric 
seriousness,  and  she  was  often  puzzled  at  the  queer  shape 
and  direction  of  his  thought.  She  was  not  puzzled  now, 
however,  nor,  for  the  matter,  was  Miss  Jane,  who  had 
come  to  regard  with  suspicion  everything  the  schoolmaster 
said.  She  understood  perfectly  well  that  he  was  ridiculing 
her,  but  she  resented  it  only  by  a  sniff  of  disdain. 

"What  did  you  say  the  creetur  wuz  name?"  pursued  Mrs. 
Pruitt. 

"His  name  is  Vanderlyn,  madam,  and  it  seems  to  be  in 
this  instance  the  synonym  for  villain.  Do  you  really  sup 
pose,  ladies,"  in  a  confidential  tone,  "that  he  has  settled  in 
Rockville  without  informing  anybody?" 

"Goodness  me,  William  Wornum !"  exclaimed  Miss  Jane. 
What  else  she  may  have  said  will  never  be  known,  for 
before  she  could  finish  her  lecture  Mrs.  Bagley  chimed  in 
with  her  shrill  treble:  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  know,  Mr. 
Wornum,  though  mebbe  hit  ain't  much.  Soon's  I  heerd 
thar  wuz  a  stranger  set  up  in  town  I  goes  to  John  Bell, 
the  stage  driver,  an'  I  sez:  'John,'  sez  I,  'who's  this  new 
man?'  'Which  new  man?'  sez  he.  'Why,  this  new  man 
that's  set 
I.  'Lord 
have  much 
Mrs.  Bagley,'  sez 
baggidge  fer  no  new  man ;  an'  ef  he  come  in  my  stage, 
ma'm,'  sez  he,  'he  rid  in  the  boot ;  an'  ef  he  rid  in  the  boot, 
I  wouldn't  like  fer  to  w'ar  his  broozes.'  Them's  John 


Early  Literary  Efforts  301 

Bell's  own  words ;  an'  ef  he  hadn't  tole  'em  outen  his  own 
mouth,  I'd  a  scasely  believed  'em.  Now,"  continued  Mrs. 
Bagley,  lowering  her  voice  to  the  inflection  of  mystery, 
"how  you  reckon  that  man  got  into  town  and  fetch  his 
baggidge  ?" 

"I  think  Miss  Jane's  theory  is  the  most  plausible,"  said 
the  schoolmaster.  "It  is  evident  he  crept  up  on  the  com 
munity  without  giving  the  community  fair  warning.  It 
is  a  very  serious  case." 

Mrs.  Padgett:  "You  ain't  seen  'im,  is  you,  Mr.  Wor- 
num?" 

The  schoolmaster:  "Worse  than  that,  madam.  I  have 
fraternized  with  him." 

Mrs.  Padgett:  "O,  you  don't  say!" 

Mrs.  Pruitt:  "What  did  the  poor  creetur  look  like?" 

The  schoolmaster:  "He  is  a  very  rough-looking  cus 
tomer.  Like  father,  like  son.  Miss  Jane  saw  the  son,  a 
ragged,  dirty  little  vagrant,  who  seems  to  have  a  habit  of 
roosting  in  chinaberry  trees." 

Mrs.  Pruitt:  "Is  it  possible?" 

Miss  Jane:  "Don't  you  believe  'im,  Sue.  William  Wor- 
num,  you're  the  outbeatinist  man  I  ever  see.  That  child  is 
ez  neat  an'  peart  a  lookin'  boy  ez  you'd  want  to  see,  a  mighty 
sight  better  lookin'  than  them  ragamuffins  what  graddyate 
in  that  den  of  devilment  what  you  call  your  'cademy.  It's 
mighty  easy  to  talk  about  people  you  don't  know.  You 
don't  have  to  ketch  a  frog  on  the  jump  to  cripple  it." 

The  schoolmaster  (stroking  his  serious  face  thought 
fully)  :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Jane.  My  recollection 
is  that  when  you  called  me  this  morning  you  distinctly 
stated  that  a  dirty  little  vagabond  was  perched  in  your  china 
berry  tree." 

Miss  Jane  (laughing  in  spite  of  herself)  :  "Well,  my  old 
torn  cat  has  to  look  twice  before  he  ken  tell  whether  he's 
a-ketchin'  a  mole  er  a  mouse." 

Enter  Mrs.  Dusenberry  with  a  rush  and  a  bounce: 
"Howdy,  Jane ;  howdy,  Mr.  Wornum ;  howdy,  all.  I  seen 
him!  I  jostled  right  up  ag'in  him  in  the  street,  an*  I  tell 
you  he's  a  whopper,  mighty  nigh  ez  big  as  two  men." 

Miss  Underwood:  "Does  he  look  like  a  ruffian,  Mrs. 
Dusenberry  ?" 


302  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Mrs.  Dusenberry:  "Why,  bless  your  heart,  child,  no! 
You  don't  see  no  handsomer  man  in  these  parts.  Hair 
black  ez  a  crow,  shinin'  beard,  an'  eyes  ez  mild  ez  a  baby's. 
Bill  O'Brien  wuz  walkin'  'longside  er  'im,  an'  I  wish  I  may 
die  ef  Bill  didn't  look  like  a  runt/' 

Mrs.  Pruitt  (sticking  to  her  original  proposition)  :  "Poor 
creetur !" 

Mrs.  Dusenberry  (mistaking  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Pruitt's  sympathy)':  "Youer  right,  Ann;  for  ef  ever  any 
body  looked  like  a  poor  creetur  it  was  Bill  O'Brien  when 
he  wuz  a-walkin'  'longside  er  that  man." 

To  what  further  extent  this  interesting  eulogy  would 
have  been  carried  it  is  impossible  to  say,  for  just  at  that 
moment  there  came  a  rap  upon  the  door.  Responding  to 
the  summons,  the  schoolmaster  found  Vanderlyn  and  his 
son  upon  the  porch.  The  former  had  put  on  his  coat  and 
brushed  himself  up  generally  and  was  altogether,  as  Wil 
liam  Wornum  thought,  quite  a  fine-looking  man. 

"I  jes*  drapped  in,  squire,"  he  said,  smiling  in  an  apolo 
getic  way,  "to  see  the  lady  o'  the  house." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "Come  in.  Come  in, 
Jack." 

Showing  them  into  the  parlor,  Mr.  Wornum  reported  to 
Miss  Jane  the  fact  that  Mr.  Vanderlyn  had  called  to  see 
her. 

"Well,  what  in  the  name  o'  goodness  the  man  wants  with 
me,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Jane,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff 
and  smoothing  out  her  apron  preparatory  to  giving  au 
dience  to  Vanderlyn. 

"Have  'im  in  here,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Bagley  eagerly. 

"Gracious,  yes!  6,  by  all  means!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pruitt.  "We  want  to  see  what  the  creetur's  like.  Ax  'im 
in,  Mr.  Wornum." 

This  proposition  fitted  the  queer  humor  of  the^  school 
master  so  thoroughly  that  he  did  not  wait  for  Miss  Jane 
to  decide  the  matter.'  He  went  back  to  Vanderlyn  and  in 
vited  him  into  the  sitting  room. 

"You  will  meet  some  ladies  there,"  said  the  schoolmaster 
by  way  of  warning;  "some  of  Miss  Ferryman's  particular 
friends." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  3°3 

"All  right,  squire,  I  ain't  particular  fond  of  the  fa'r 
sek,  but  I'm  lookin'  arter  bizness  now.  Shove  ahead." 

And  the  schoolmaster  did  "shove  ahead,"  leading  Van- 
derlyn  and  Jack  into  the  august  presence  of  the  principal 
gossips  of  the  village  and  introducing  him  in  the  most 
formal  manner.  Miss  Kate  Underwood,  of  Vermont, 
spinster,  aged  about  twenty-six,  was  inclined  to  be  face 
tious  ;  but  when  she  happened  to  glance  at  Vanderlyn  and 
found  his  mild  eyes  resting  calmly  upon  her,  she  colored 
Up  like  a  schoolgirl,  this  strong-minded  damsel,  and  her 
eyes  dropped  in  visible  embarrassment,  an  embarrassment 
from  which  she  did  not  fully  recover  while  the  stranger 
remained  in  the  room.  The  fair  Katherine  was  of  the 
opinion  that  her  confusion  was  not  observed  by  the  others, 
but  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  for  Mrs.  Pruitt  never  alluded 
to  her  first  meeting  with  Vanderlyn  without  remarking: 
"An'  you  oughter  seed  'im  take  down  that  Kate  Under 
wood!  She  wuz  a-snickerin'  an'  a-gigglin',  and  he  jes' 
turned  roun'  an'  give  her  one  look.  It  wuz  better  than  at 
show.  I  never  wuz  so  glad  of  ennything  in  all  my  borned 
days — a-goin'  roun'  here  settin'  up  fer  a  gal  when  she's 
forty  year  old  ef  she's  a  day." 

Women  as  a  rule  are  fair  judges  of  men ;  and  as  Van 
derlyn  sat  in  the  presence  of  the  company  that  had  as 
sembled  in  Miss  Ferryman's  sitting  room,  cool,  calm,  and 
unembarrassed,  smiling  and  showing  his  white  teeth,  they 
all  thought  they  had  never  seen  a  finer  specimen  of  man 
hood.  So  well  proportioned  was  the  stranger  that  none 
of  them  noticed  that  he  was  compelled  to  stoop  to  enter 
the  door.  He  was  altogether  a  remarkable-looking  man, 
with  his  big  frame,  his  fine  features,  and  his  black  hair  and 
beard  and  blue  eyes. 

"We  were  just  discussing  you,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  said  the 
schoolmaster — "that  is  to  say,"  with  malicious  deliberation, 
"the  ladies  here  were." 

Vanderlyn  looked  at  his  son  and  laughed,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "You  hear  that,  Jack?"  while  the  ladies  protested  with 
great  vehemence  that  Mr.  Wornum  was  grossly  misrepre 
senting  them. 

I  appeal  to  Miss  Nora,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"I  must  say,"  responded  the  girl  with  a  little  rippling 


304  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

laugh,  "that  Mr.  Vanderlyn's  name  was  mentioned,  and 
we  were  wondering  where  he  came  from  and  all  about  him 
and  his  little  boy.  I  am  sure  there  was  no  harm  in  that." 

"None,  ladies,  none  whatsoever,"  said  Vanderlyn  in  a 
voice  so  gentle  that  it  startled  those  who  heard  it.  Mrs. 
Bagley  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  it  sounded  like  a  flute, 
and  Miss  Kate  Underwood  afterwards  told  Becky  Griggs, 
her  oldest  pupil,  that  she  felt  like  crying.  "No,  lady,"  he 
continued  as  gently  as  before,  "me  and  Jack  oughter  feel 
thankful  that  such  as  you  and  these  ladies  is  kind  enough 
10  think  of  us  at  all." 

Nothing  was  said  by  any  of  the  ladies  in  response  to  this, 
even  the  schoolmaster  holding  his  humor  in  abeyance. 
Miss  Jane,  looking  out  of  the  window,  appeared  to  be 
watching  the  riotous  caperings  of  a  colt  in  Judge  Wal- 
thall's  barley  patch.  Mrs.  Pruitt  took  a  ball  of  yarn  and  a 
half-finished  stocking  from  her  pocket  and  began  to  knit 
industriously.  Mrs.  Bagley  studied  her  paper  of  snuff  in 
tently,  and  Mrs.  Dusenberry  picked  imaginary  ravelings 
from  the  corner  of  her  shawl,  while  Kate  Underwood  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  floor. 

"You  may  say/'  pursued  Vanderlyn,  smiling  slightly, 
''that  me  and  Jack  come  through  the  country.  We've 
traipsed  aroun'  considerably,  ain't  we,  Jack?" 

"Goodness,  yes,  but  didn't  we  have  fun  though?" 

"Oceans  uv  it,  jes'  oceans  uv  it.  You  see,  I  wuz  a-hunt- 
in'  fer  a  party,  an'  I've  been  a-huntin'  'im  mighty  nigh 
eight  years.  I  owe  'im  a  debt,"  he  continued  in  an  ex 
planatory  way,  "an'  I  wanter  pay  'im.  But  I  seen  this 
traipsing  bizness  didn't  help  Jack  much,  an'  I  sez  to  ^ my 
self,  sez  I,  'Look  a  here,  ole  man,  while  youer  huntin'  fer 
your  party,  whatter  you  doin'  fer  that  boy?'  Sez  I,  'You've 
gotter  send  that  boy  to  school;  an'  ef  you  send  'im  to 
school,  you've  gotter  settle  down.'  And,"  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "I've  settled.  Ez  fer  bizness,  I  ain't  pinin'  arter 
customers.  I  ain't  ableedzd  to  have  'em.  I've  laid  away 
a  little  money  fer  me  an'  Jack,  an'  ef  people  don't  want 
the'r  guns  mended,  hit  won't  hurt  my  feelin's." 

"What  you  think?"  said  Jack,  laughing.  "Sometimes 
when  we'd  be  goin'  'long  he'd  wanter  tote  me." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  305 

"An*  you  think  he'd  let  me?"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn  in 
an  aggrieved  voice. 

"Why,  goodness  me,"  said  Jack,  "when  a  feller  gits  tired, 
he  oughter  set  down  an'  rest !" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  squire,"  said  Vanderlyn,  turning  to 
the  schoolmaster  and  speaking  in  a  confidential  tone,  "didn't 
I  tell  you  he  wuz  a  regular  buster?" 

The  schoolmaster  admitted  that  he  did  and  took  great 
pleasure,  as  he  said,  in  coinciding  in  the  opinion  that  Jack 
was  a  buster. 

"I  come  over,  Miss  Ferryman,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "fer  to 
see  ef  you  wouldn't  take  Jack  an'  board  'im.  He  wouldn't 
be  no  more  trouble  than  ef  he  wuzzent  in  the  house,  an', 
more  than  that,  hit's  about  time  fer  some  lady  to  take  'im 
in  han'  an*  sorter  civilize  'im.  Jack  said  this  mornin'  it 
looked  mighty  like  home  over  here.  Didn't  you,  Jack?" 

"I  said,"  replied  Jack,  blushing  and  looking  embarrassed 
for  the  first  time,  "that  when  I  dreamed  of  mother  she 
allers  looked  at  me  like  Miss  Jane  did  when  I  clomb  down 
outer  the  tree." 

Miss  Jane  colored  a  little,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  ex 
claimed  somewhat  snappishly:  "Why,  of  course  I'll  take 
the  chile !  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  He'll  be  no  trouble  ter  me ; 
an'^ef  he  gets  too  obstrepalous,  I'll  use  my  shoe  on  'im." 

"Lor',  Miss  Ferryman,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "you'll  admire 
to  see  how  that  boy  will  mine  you.  Whatever  you  tell  'im 
to  do,  ef  it  kin  be  done,  he'll  do  it.  He's  got  mischief  into 
'im,  but  he  ain't  got  no  meanness." 

"I'm  takin'  'im  on  my  own  judgment/'  said  Miss  Jane 
with  some  asperity. 

v 

Our  Marionettes 

It  is  not  possible  that  the  reader  has  formed  more  than 
a  vague  idea  of  the  characteristics  of  William  Wornum, 
the  schoolmaster.  I  have  said  that  he  was  eccentric;  I 
should  have  said  that  people  called  him  eccentric,  people 
who  did  not  know  him  well.  He  had  traveled  a  great  deal 
and  was  possessed  of  an  ample  competency,  and  yet  he 
chose  to  shut  himself  up  in  a  schoolroom  day  after  day 
with  thirty  or  more  riotous  urchins.  He  was  the  owner 
20 


306  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

of  a  large  plantation,  the  most  fertile  probably  in  the  whole 
country,  and  it  was  in  charge  of  an  overseer  who  was  not 
only  kind  to  the  negroes,  but  was  one  of  the  most  pro 
gressive  and  intelligent  agriculturists  of  that  day.  His 
crops  of  cotton  and  corn  were  something  wonderful,  and 
they  brought  to  the  schoolmaster  an  ample  income.  Know 
ing  all  this,  some  of  the  inhabitants  of  Rockville  called 
him  eccentric,  while  others  said  he  was  not  only  eccentric, 
but  miserly.  When  gossip  of  this  sort  was  brought  to  his 
ears  by  Miss  Jane,  who  was  his  most  earnest  champion,  he 
would  smile  and  say  nothing.  He  was  too  indifferent  to 
public  opinion  even  to  have  a  contempt  for  it.  He  went 
little  into  society,  though  he  was  somewhat  socially  inclined 
at  times  and  was  a  most  charming  conversationalist.  He 
made  no  effort  to  make  himself  popular  with  the  many, 
and  he  had  but  few  intimate  friends.  To  those  few,  how 
ever,  his  quaint  humor  and  queer  conceits  were  a  perpetual 
well-spring  of  pleasure.  He  taught  school  because  the 
indolence  of  plantation  life  did  not  fit  his  restlessness  and 
because,  moreover,  he  was  really  interested  in  the  study  of 
the  unadulterated  human  nature  to  be  found  in  boys.  It 
was  for  this  reason,  and  this  alone,  that  he  so  readily  con 
sented  to  take  Jack  Vanderlyn  in  hand.  He  thought  he 
discovered  in  the  boy  a  peculiar  freshness  and  brightness 
not  often  seen  in  children,  and  he  at  once  became  in 
terested.  For  the  rest,  the  schoolmaster  was  tall  and  slim, 
with  a  slight  stoop  in  the  shoulders.  His  face  was  so 
thoughtful  and  intellectual  as  to  have  the  appearance  of 
sadness,  and  he  had  dark  hair,  large,  brilliant  black  eyes, 
and  rather  a  large  mouth.  In  him  the  ease  and  the  repose 
of  a  man  of  the  world  seemed  to  be  combined  in  a  singular 
manner  with  the  shyness  and  reserve  of  the  scholar.  His 
humor,  which  had  something  of  the  flavor  of  that  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  about  it,  sometimes  took  the  shape  of 
sarcasm,  but  never  drifted  in  the  direction  of  cynicism. 
He  made  a  great  pretense  of  being  serious  over  trifles  and 
of  treating  important  matters  with  careless  indifference. 
He  was  well  advanced  in  the  thirties,  but  said  he  was  forty, 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  as  consistent  for  an  unmarried 
man  to  be  forty  years  old  as  to  be  thirty-seven.  He  was 
most  satirical  of  people  and  things  and  the  benefactor 


Early  Literary  Efforts  307 

of  all  who  needed  charity.  Above  all,  he  was  generous  to 
his  negroes.  They  were  well  clothed,  well  fed,  and  had 
comfortable  quarters.  I  do  not  mention  this  as  an  excep 
tion.  Scarcely  one  planter  in  one  hundred  treated  his 
negroes  cruelly,  and  that  one  was  compelled  to  face  the 
open  scorn  and  contempt  of  the  ninety-nine.  It  was  not  a 
crime  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  for  a  master  to  treat  his  slave 
cruelly;  but  the  old  plantation  had  a  code  of  its  own  and 
cruelty  to  a  negro  was  almost  invariably  followed  by  social 
isolation,  and  in  those  times  no  punishment  could  be  se 
verer.  I  have  mentioned  this  trait  in  the  character  of  Wil 
liam  Wornum  because  the  careful  and  scrupulous  manner 
in  which  he  watched  over  his  negroes  was  the  subject  of 
remark  among  his  neighbors.  Upon  one  occasion  he  em 
ployed  a  man  by  the  name  of  Raddick,  who  came  well 
recommended,  to  manage  his  plantation.  A  few  weeks 
afterwards,  while  making  his  regular  weekly  visit  to  his 
place,  Wornum  called  for  Plato,  a  venerable  old  negro, 
who,  by  reason  of  his  age,  experience,  and  faithfulness,  was 
the  confidential  adviser  of  his  master  in  matters  relating 
to  the  management  of  the  crops  and  the  necessities  of  the 
negroes.  When  the  old  man,  still  hale  and  hearty,  but  with 
hair  as  white  as  snow,  came  up,  hat  in  hand,  his  master 
observed  a  scar  across  his  face. 

"How  did  you  hurt  yourself,  Plato?"  asked  William 
Wornum. 

"I  didn't  hurt  myse'f,  Marse  Willium.    I  wuz  hurted." 

"Who  hurt  you?" 

"Mr.  Raddick/' 

"How?" 

"He  fetched  me  a  lick  wid  his  ridin'  w'ip." 

"Send  Elleck  after  Mr.  Raddick  and  go  to  your  house. 
When  I  want  you,  I'll  call  you/5 

Raddick  came  up  in  a  great  hurry  apparently  and  was 
very  effusive  in  his  manner:  "Why,  lordy,  Kurnel,  howdy! 
Ef  I'd  'a'  know'd  you's  a-comin',  Kurnel,  I'd  'a'  been  here 
befo'.  Did  you  wanter  see  me,  Kurnel?" 

"I  believe  we  have  a  contract  for  the  year." 

"Yes,  Kurnel." 

"Come  to  Rockville  to-morrow,  and  I  will  pay  you  your 


308  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

year's  salary.     I  want  you  to  quit  my  place  immediate- 

iy." 

"But,  Kurnel"— 

"If  we  argue  over  the  matter,  Mr.  Raddick,  I  shall  lose 
my  temper.  I  don't  want  you  on  my  place,  and  that  is 
enough." 

That  was  the  end  of  Raddick's  career  as  an  overseer  in 
that  section.  The  fact  leaked  out  in  some  way  that  Wil 
liam  Wornum  had  paid  him  an  entire  year's  salary  rather 
than  keep  him,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  em 
ployment.  Plato,  relating  the  affair  to  his  fellow  servants 
sometime  after,  said :  "I  nuss'd  Marse  Willium  f 'um  a  baby 
up,  an'  I  ain't  never  seen  'im  dat  mad  befo'.  He  wuz 
a-whoopin',  sho's  you  born." 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  schoolmaster  was  his  sensi 
tiveness.  In  his  youth  it  almost  amounted  to  an  affliction, 
but  he  was  accustomed  to  hide  it  by  an  assumed  careless 
ness  that  did  not  commend  him  to  strangers.  "Have  many 
acquaintances,  but  few  friends,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say 
at  times,  or  "The  people  of  the  East  have  a  habit  of  in 
specting  their  figs  before  eating  them."  His  most  intimate 
friends  were  Miss  Jane  Ferryman  and  her  sister  Nora, 
Judge  Walthall,  who  had  been  a  member  of  Congress  and 
who  was  the  largest  planter  in  the  country,  Emory  Reed, 
a  brilliant  young  lawyer,  and  Miss  Kate  Underwood.  He 
was  attracted  to  Miss  Jane  by  the  sharpness  of  her  wit  and 
her  uncompromising  method  of  dealing  with  the  foibles 
of  friends  and  foes  and  the  aptness  of  her  illustrations, 
He  had  long  ago  discovered  what  a  warm  and  kindly  nature 
lay  beneath  the  cloak  of  asperity  which  Miss  Jane  chose 
to  wear,  and  she  with  the  shrewdness  of  her  sex  had  taken 
the  full  measure  of  the  schoolmaster  and  caught  more  than 
one  glimpse  of  his  noble  purposes  and  pure  soul.  "The 
porcupine  furnishes  a  tender  steak,"  he  was  wont  to  re 
mark  when  defending  Miss  Jane  from  the  good-humored 
attacks  of  her  friends,  and  she  had  said  to  him:  "The  big 
gest  fiddle  don't  make  the  most  music  by  a  long  shot." 

Miss  Jane  was  not  compelled  to  take  boarders.  She 
owned  a  family  of  seven  sleek,  fat  negroes,  headed  by 
Uncle  Ben  and  Aunt  Ferraby.  The  two  latter  she  kept 
with  her,  but  the  five  boys— stout,  healthy  fellows,  ranging 


Early  Literary  Efforts  309 

from  fifteen  to  twenty-two — she  hired  out,  allowing  them 
the  privilege  of  choosing  their  own  employers.  Uncle  Ben 
was  quite  a  character  in  his  way  and  quite  a  favorite  with 
the  young  men,  who  enjoyed  his  odd  sayings  and  admired 
his  politeness,  which  would  have  done  honor  to  one  of  the 
old  Virginia  barons.  He  was  also  a  famous  hunter  of  the 
raccoon  and  opossum,  and  there  are  few  who  lived  in  Rock- 
ville  even  as  late  as  1858  who  do  not  have  a  lively  recol 
lection  of  Uncle  Ben's  "possum  suppers." 

Miss  Jane  was  quite  comfortably  off,  so  far  as  this 
world's  goods  were  concerned ;  but  when  William  Wornum, 
whom  she  had  long  known,  asked  her  to  allow  him  to  make 
one  of  her  little  family,  she  readily  consented,  with  the 
characteristic  remark:  "Wimmen  is  poor  creeturs,  enny- 
how.  They're  miserable  ef  they  ain't  got  a  man  in  the 
house  an'  miserable  ef  they  have.  Tinkins  [her  pet  cat] 
is  gittm'  too  ole  ter  be  enny  pertection,  an'  I  b'leeve  in  my 
soul  ef  a  buggler  wuz  to  break  in  I  wouldn't  have  strength 
to  holler  for  Ben/' 

And  so  the  schoolmaster  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  little 
cottage.  Nora  had  just  returned  from  Philadelphia,  where 
she  had  been  at  school,  and  William  Wornum  was  surprised 
that  one  destitute  of  sight  could  be  taught  so  many  accom 
plishments.  Indeed,  it  was  always  a  question  with  him 
whether  she  had  been  taught.  She  seemed  to  learn  by  in 
tuition.  Her  memory  was  something  wonderful,  while  her 
hearing  and  her  sense  of  touch  were  most  exquisitely  de 
veloped.  As  the  schoolmaster  said,  her  blindness  was  by 
no  means  an  affliction.  Her  large  gray  eyes  were  as  clear 
and  as  limpid  as  though  their  vision  was  unimpaired,  and 
but  for  the  introspective  expression  they  always  wore — 
as  of  one  in  deep  thought  who  looks  at  you  fixedly  and 
yet  does  not  seem  to  see  you — strangers  would  have  learned 
of  her  blindness  with  astonishment.  The  schoolmaster  was 
at  first  disposed  to  deplore  what  he  considered  an  afflic 
tion,  but  later  he  ceased  to  remember  that  she  was  blind. 
Upon  one  occasion,  when  she  and  William  Wornum  were 
sitting  on  the  porch  together,  the  conversation  turned  upon 
her  blindness,  and  she  said:  "If  a  miracle  could  be  per 
formed  and  I  could  be  made  to  see,  I  think  I  should  be  in 
perpetual  confusion.  I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  pos- 


310  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

sible  for  people  to  look  and  listen  at  the  same  time.  I 
should  probably  think  less  of  my  friends  if  I  could  see 
their  faces." 

"No  doubt,"  said  the  schoolmaster  with  a  sigh.  "Some 
of  them  are  homely  enough,  Heaven  knows." 

"O,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  the  young  girl  hastened  to  re 
ply.  "I  meant  that  I  might  discover  that  their  faces  con 
tradicted  their  kind  words.  I  should  delight  in  homely 
faces  like  sister  Jane's.  I  imagine  I  see  their  faces,  and 
that  is  enough  for  me." 

"Would  you  mind  describing  me  ?"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"O,  that  is  absurd,  Mr.  Wornum.  Of  course  I  know 
how  you  look.  You  are  tall,  with  large  eyes  and  dark  hair; 
and  although  you  make  others  laugh,  you  rarely  smile 
yourself.  Sometimes  you  are  really  troubled  about  some 
thing,  but  I  cannot  see  what  it  is,"  she  said  gently. 

"Trouble  is  a  frequent  visitor  to  us  all,"  he  said  aloud; 
but  to  himself  he  said :  "Ah,  child,  if  you  only  knew !" 

"But  your  troubles  must  be  little  ones,"  she  said. 

"Yes/*  he  responded  in  a  low  tone.  "They  are  scarcely 
worth  speaking  about." 

"I  cannot  see  the  rose  and  the  violet  as  you  see  them," 
the  young  girl  went  on ;  "but  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  can  see  their  perfume.  I  hear  sounds  and  enjoy  the 
fragrance  of  flowers  far  better  than  if  I  had  eyesight  to 
confuse  me." 

"You  cannot  see  the  stars,"  said  the  professor,  happening  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  Sirius  burning  and  blazing  in  the  east. 

"No,"  she  said,  smiling  just  a  little;  "but  I  can  compre 
hend  what  is  meant  by  the  infinity  of  space,  and  this  would 
be  impossible  if  I  could  see  the  thousand  and  one  small 
things  visible  to  the  eye  and  have  my  thoughts  bounded  by 
the  narrow  limits  of  vision.  When  you  speak  of  the  in 
finity  of  space,  you  use  the  words  without  understanding 
their  meaning.  To  me  they  convey  an  idea  as  vivid  and 
as  real  as  my  own  existence,  because  I  have  an  experience, 
a  fact,  with 'which  I  can  compare  it,  and  that  fact  is  the 
boundless  darkness  by  which  I  am  surrounded.  If  you 
should  endeavor  to  describe  light  to  me,  I  would  fail  to 
understand  you." 

"You  have  given  me  a  problem,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  311 

VI 

The  Freaks  of  Daniel  Vanderlyn 

William  Wornnm  took  charge  of  Rockville  Academy  as 
the  successor  of  one  Thomas  McManus,  a  thoroughly  pro 
ficient  teacher,  but  a  very  cruel  and  overbearing  man.  He 
used  the  rod  to  such  an  extent  that  his  pupils  were  thor 
oughly  demoralized;  and  he  had  a  habit,  which  was  quite 
common  among  the  instructors  of  youth  of  those  days,  of 
showing  a  decided  partiality  for  the  sons  of  his  wealthier 
patrons.  It  is  more  than  probable,  however,  that  the  man 
thought  he  was  adding  to  his  supply  of  meat  and  bread  by 
such  a  course.  All  this  was  changed  by  William  Wornum. 
He  began  by  introducing  the  discipline  of  kindness  and 
strict  impartiality.  Above  all,  he  never  lost  patience  with 
a  dull  pupil.  The  boys  were  astonished  and  then  skeptical, 
but  they  gradually  fell  in  with  the  reforms  of  the  new 
teacher;  and  in  a  short  time,  in  spite  of  Miss  Jane's  criti 
cisms,  which  I  have  already  quoted,  the  discipline  of  the 
school  was  well-nigh  perfect.  The  rod  was  laid  away,  and 
kindness  ruled  in  its  stead.  The  least  tractable  boys  re 
ceived  the  most  attention  from  the  schoolmaster,  and  the 
ambition  of  the  dullest  was  aroused  by  the  competitive  ex 
aminations  that  occurred  twice  a  week.  It  was  altogether 
a  model  school,  and  people  sent  their  children  from  long 
distances  in  order  that  their  mental  training  might  be  di 
rected  by  William  Wornum. 

Jack  Vanderlyn's  lines  were,  therefore,  cast  in  pleasant 
places.  The  schoolmaster  found  him  not  only  apt  and 
bright,  but  well  advanced  for  a  boy  of  seven.  He  could 
read  well,  and  he  never  tired  of  study.  He  never  neglected 
his  books  for  play  nor  his  play  for  books.  One  day,  short 
ly  after  the  boy  entered  the  academy,  the  schoolmaster 
heard  a  rapping  upon  the  wall  near  the  door.  It  was 
Daniel  Vanderlyn. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  said  William  Wornum. 
"Come  in  and  see  my  young  men/' 

"I  jes'  thought  I'd  drap  in  an'  see  how  the  boys  wuz 
a-gittin'  'long,"  the  giant  remarked  in  an  apologetic  tone. 

"Certainly.  Come  in.  Jack's  class  is  just  about  to  re 
cite.  You  are  just  in  time." 


312  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Well,  I  be  blame,  schoolmaster,  ef  I  don't  believe  I'll 
sorter  linger  round  out  here  till  arter  Jack  gits  through. 
I'm  feared  I'd  kinder  ruffle  the  boy's  feelin's  an'  make 
'im  stumble." 

He  went  in,  however,  after  some  persuasion,  and  from 
that  time  forward  not  a  school  day  passed  that  Vanderlyn 
did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  academy.  He  soon  be 
came  a  great  favorite  with  the  boys,  who  called  him  "Jack's 
giant  killer."  He  joined  in  their  games  with  a  zest  that 
afforded  a  fresh  subject  of  study  for  the  schoolmaster. 
He  played  horse  for  the  smaller  ones,  frequently  carrying 
two  on  his  shoulders;  he  made  swings  and  built  a  gym 
nasium,  and  he  taught  the  larger  boys  how  to  handle  a' bat 
and  catch  a  ball.  In  fine,  it  came  to  pass  that  Vanderlyn 
was  quite  an  important  adjunct  to  the  school.  Hearing  of 
all  this,  some  of  the  parents  of  the  boys  concluded  that  the 
man  was  a  lunatic;  and  one  or  two  of  them,  Mr.  Bagley 
among  the  number,  protested  to  the  schoolmaster  that  such 
"carryings  on"  were  hurtful  to  the  dignity  of  the  school. 
William  Wornnm  laughed  at  these  protests,  but  at  the 
same  time  gave  the  dissatisfied  parents  to  understand  that 
he  was  managing  his  school  to  suit  himself. 

An  incident  occurred  shortly  after  this  that  rather  turned 
the  tide  of  popular  opinion  in  Rockville  in  favor  of  Vander 
lyn.  Judge  Walthall  had  recently  purchased  a  pair  of 
horses  for  his  phaeton,  the  first  vehicle  of  the  kind  ever 
seen  in  Rockville.  The  horses  were  as  pretty  as  a  picture, 
black  as  jet  and  wonderfully  stylish  in  their  appearance. 
John  Bell  and  other  judges  of  horse  flesh  gave  it  as  their 
opinion  that  they  were  thoroughbreds,  while  the  admira 
tion  of  the  female  portion  of  the  community  was  content 
to  pause  in  contemplation  of  the  silver-mounted  harness 
and  the  shining  vehicle. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  the  schoolmaster  was  standing 
talking  to  Vanderlyn  in  front  of  the  latter's  shop.  The 
group  of  two  had  been  reenforced  by  Mr.  Bagley  and  John 
Bell. 

"I  reckon  we'll  have  some  rain  to-morrow,"  remarked 
Mr.  Bagley.    "I  seen  it  lightning  in  the  north  just  now." 
•  "Yes,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "an*  thar's  a  raincrow  a-hollerin' 
hisself  hoarse  in  that  oak  over  thar." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  313 

'  'Twoulcln't  s'prise  me  ef  we  didn't  have  some  fallin' 
weather  'fore  the  week's  out/'  said  John  Bell.  "When  I 
crossed  Lick  Creek  this  mornin',  a  powerful  fog  wuz  han«-- 
in'  roun'." 

"And  the  tree  frogs  are  growing  clamorous,"  remarked 
the  schoolmaster. 

"O,  dad  blame  the  tree  frogs!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Baglev. 
-They're—  Hello!  what's  that?" 

^There  was  a  tremendous  rattling  up  the  street,  mingled 
with  what  appeared  to  be  the  screams  of  women.  The  little 
group^  standing  there  discussing  the  weather  were  net  left 
long  in  suspense.  In  another  moment  Judge  Walthall's 
phaeton  swung  around  the  courthouse  corner  and  came 
thundering  toward  them.  There  appeared  to  be  several 
ladies  in  the  vehicle,  and  one  was  making  ineffectual  efforts 
to  wrench  the  door  open. 

"Look  at  the  damn  nigger!"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn.  Jim, 
the  driver,  was  plainly  demoralized.  He  seemed  to  be 
making  small  effort  to  control  the  horses,  though,  for  that 
matter,  they  appeared  to  be  beyond  human  control. 

"Ef  the  devil  ain't  to  pay  now,  I'm  a  Dutchman/'  said 
John  Bell. 

Vanderlyn  walked  out  into  the  street  and  stood  as  if  he 
would  confront  the  rushing  animals. 

^"Get  out  of  the  way!"  exclaimed  the  schoolmaster;  but 
Vanderlyn  sood  like  a  statue. 

"Pull  on  that  lead  horse,  Jim!"  he  exclaimed  as  the 
phaeton  neared  him,  and  his  voice  rang  out  like  a  trumpet. 
Then  he  made  a  spring,  caught  the  off  horse  by  the  bridle, 
was  dragged  a  little  distance,  regained  his  feet,  and  swung 
to  the  animal's  head  with  such  marvelous  strength  that, 
after  a  few  desperate  lunges,  both  horses  were  brought  to 
a  standstill.  Fortunately,  the  negro  driver  had  compre 
hended  Vanderlyn's  order  and  carried  it  out  to  the  letter, 
else^it  is  possible  there  would  have  been  no  excuse  for  af 
flicting  the  reader  with  the  details  of  this  chronicle. 

By  the  time  the  horses  were  brought  to  a  halt  John  Bell 
and  Mr.  Bagley  had  reached  their  heads,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  Judge  Walthall  came  running  up,  nearly  frantic 
with  fright.  The  phaeton  contained  his  wife  and  his  daugh 
ter  Lucy,  and  with  them  were  Miss  Kate  Underwood  and 


314  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Becky  Griggs.^  The  Judge  went  up  to  Vanderlyn  with  the 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  and  took  the  gunmaker's 
hand  in  his,  unable  for  the  moment  to  speak.  Vanderlyn 
was  visibly  embarrassed.  The  tears  of  the  old  man  con 
fused  him. 

"That's  a  right  peart  pair  er  hosses,  Jedge,"  he  said  and 
then,  after  a  little,  "an*  a  mighty  tough  waggin." 

"Mr.  Vanderlyn/'  Judge  Walthall  said  presently  in  a 
broken  voice,  "whatever  I  have  is  yours.  You  have  done 
more  for  me  and  mine  this  day  than  I  could  do  for  you  were 
I  to  remain  your  servant  a  thousand  years." 

"Don't  mine  me,  Jedge,"  said  Vanderlyn,  laughing  a 
little  to  hide  his  confusion.  "Ef  it  hadn't  'a'  bin  fer  Jim 
thar,  that  off  horse  'ud  er  drug  me  outer  town." 

"  'Twuzzent  me,  marster.  I  wuz  too  skeered  fer  ter  pull 
much.  I  ain't  never  see  nobody  ketch  er  hoss  like  dat;  an* 
ef  Marse  Dan  hadn't  er  kotch  'em,  de  killin'  place  would  er 
bin  right  down  yan  at  de  big  gully.  We'd  never  crossed 
dat  bridge  wid  bref  in  us.  I  knowed  dat  w'en  dey  turn' 
roun'  de  cote'ouse  cornder." 

By  this  time  the  ladies  had  been  assisted  out  by  the 
schoolmaster,  and  Vanderlyn's  embarrassment  was  height 
ened  by  their  thanks.  He  took  occasion  to  observe  that  they 
were  all  frightened  and  trembling,  with  the  exception  of 
Miss  Underwood,  who  was  quite  calm  and  self-possessed. 
She  noticed  that  whenever  Vanderlyn  wiped  the  perspira 
tion  from  his  face  with  his  hand  he  left  a  trace  of  blood. 

"You  have  hurt  yourself,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said. 
"Take  my  handkerchief,"  offering  him  what  he  took  to  be 
a  piece  of  lace. 

"  'Tain't  nothing  but  the  scratch  of  a  tongue  buckle," 
he  said,  refusing  the  handkerchief.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
driver:  "What  skeered  these  hosses,  Jim?" 

"Nothin'  never  skeered  um,  Marse  Dan.  Dey  des  got 
the  ole  boy  in  um.  W'en  we  wuz  comin'  'long  by  Marse 
Ab  Stone's,  dat  off  hoss  back  'is  years  an'  shake  'is  head, 
an*  de  udder  one  look  like  he  say  'All  right,'  and  den  dey 
fa'rly  tore  de  groun'  up." 

"Jedge,"  said  Vanderlyn,  turning  to  Judge  Walthall, 
"kin  I  borry  these  animals  'bout  half  hour?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  315 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  but  you  are  not  going  to  at 
tempt  to  drive  them  now?" 

"I'm  a-gwine  to  see  ef  I  can't  sorter  tame  'em  down  like. 
Jack,  run  an'  fetch  my  whip." 

"I  tell  you  what,  ole  man,"  said  John  Bell,  who,  with 
Mr.  Bagley,  was  standing  at  the  heads  of  the  still  restive 
horses,  "ef  you  mount  that  box,  you'll  git  sick  of  it.  I'm 
handlin'  squally  hosses  every  day  in  the  year,  but  you 
wouldn't  ketch  me  pullin'  the  lines  over  this  team  right 
now.  They've  got  Satan  in  'em." 

"I'll  try  'em  one  roun',  ennyhow,  jes'  to  see  how  they 
pull,"  replied  Vanderlyn  as  Jack  returned  with  a  heavy 
wagoner's  whip.  Loosening  the  checkreins,  Vanderlyn 
gathered  up  the  lines  and  mounted  the  box.  "Now,  gents," 
he  said  to  Bagley  and  Bell  when  he  had  settled  himself 
firmly  in  the  seat,  "now,  gents,  you  kin  give  'em  all  the 
room  they  want." 

Bell  and  Bagley  jumped  aside,  and  the  horses  made  a 
plunge  forward.  At  the  same  instant  the  lash  of  the  heavy 
whip  flew  into  the  air  and  descended  upon  one  of  the  ani 
mals  with  a  report  like  that  of  a  pistol.  This  was  the  sig 
nal  for  the  inauguration  of  a  desperate  struggle  between 
the  man  and  the  horses.  The  plunges  of  the  animals  were 
something  prodigious,  and  every  time  they  plunged  the 
spectators  could  hear  the  report  of  the  whip  as  it  fell  mer 
cilessly  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left.  The  ladies, 
the  schoolmaster,  Judge  Walthall,  and  the  others  looked 
on  in  amazement. 

"Dang  my  buttons  ef  he  ain't  natally  holdin'  'em  down  on 
the  yearth !"  exclaimed  John  Bell,  who  considered  himself 
the  best  horseman  in  all  that  section. 

"And  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  hurting  himself  much,  either," 
remarked  the  schoolmaster. 

As  long  as  the  horses  continued  the  plunging  the  whip 
continued  to  descend ;  but  as  they  turned  up  a  back  street 
those  who  were  watching  saw  that  they  had  settled  down 
into  a  smooth  and  steady  run.  It  was  also  observable  that 
they  were  held  well  in  hand.  In  a  few  minutes  the  team 
turned  the  corner  of  the  courthouse,  where  they  had  first 
been  seen  by  Mr.  Bagley  and  those  who  were  talking  with 
him.  They  had  subsided  from  a  run  into  a  gallop,  and 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

they  came  down  the  street  easily  and  steadily,  until  they 
drew  up  alongside  the  little  group  they  had  left  a  few  min 
utes  before. 

"Now,  ladies,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "ef  you  wanter  finish 
your  ride,  all  you  gotter  do  is  to  let  Jim  clime  up  here  and 
take  you  roun'.  Ain't  no  tamer  horses'n  these.  I  'low'd 
I  wuz  gwineter  have  a  big  fight  wi'  'em,  but,  my  goodness ! 
they  came  down  to  bizness  jes'  like  lam's.  They're  right 
lively  cattle,  Jedge,  but  they  ain't  got  no  harm  in  'em. 
Nothin'  but  fun." 

"I  wouldn't  dare  to  ride  unless  you  held  the  reins,  Mr. 
Vanderlyn,"  said  the  fair  Katherine  Underwood,  a  faint 
color  showing  itself  in  her  face. 

"Why,  certain,"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn.  "Open  that  door, 
Jim.  Mr.  Wornum,  help  the  ladies  in." 

There  was  no  more  fright  on  the  part  of  the  ladies.  With 
Vanderlyn  upon  the  box  after  his  little  exploit  of  stopping 
the  runaway  horses,  to  think  of  danger  would  have  been 
absurd,  and  they  all  seated  themselves  in  the  vehicle  once 
more. 

"William,"  said  Judge  Walthall  to  the  schoolmaster  as 
the  phaeton  was  driven  off,  "who  is  this  man  Vanderlyn  ?" 

"There  is  his  history,  Judge,  as  far  as  I  know  it,"  replied 
the  schoolmaster,  pointing  to  the  swinging  sign,  which  bore 
upon  its  face  the  commonplace  legend,  "D.  Vanderlyn, 
Gunmaker." 

"Pie  seems  to  be  a  remarkable  person,"  said  the  Judge. 

"Altogether,  I  should  say  that  he  is  the  most  remarkable 
man  I  ever  met,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "I  have  been 
thrown  with  him  nearly  every  day  for  several  weeks,  and 
I  must  say  that  I  have  never  seen  any  one  quite  so  at 
tractive.  He  is  uncouth  in  his  talk  and  sometimes  in  his 
manner,  but  after  a  little  while  one  forgets  all  these  things. 
He  is  as  simple  as  a  child,  as  gentle  and  tender  as  a  woman, 
and  yet  he  is  a  marvelous  specimen  of  manhood.  Pie  has 
a  way  of  his  own,  and  I  should  imagine  that  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  trifle  with  him." 

"I  must  see  more  of  him,"  said  the  Judge  heartily. 

"He  is  worth  cultivating,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "He 
is  one  of  the  originals,  and  he  has  the  brightest  boy  I  have 
ever  seen.  For  the  purpose  of  studying  human  nature  I 


Early  Literary  Efforts  317 

wouldn't  give  Dan  Vanderlyn  and  his  son  for  a  whole  city 
full  of  people.  There's  the  boy  now.  'Jack/  "  he  called, 
and  then  the  boy  came  up  with  a  smile  on  his  frank  face. 
"This  is  Judge  Walthall,  Jack." 

The  Judge  seemed  to  take  great  interest  in  the  child. 
He  was  impressed,  as  most  people  were,  with  the  bright, 
intelligent  face  and  the  unaffected  frankness  of  the  boy 
and  talked  to  him  for  some  time. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do,"  said  the 
Judge,  passing  his  hand  caressingly  through  Jack's  curly 
hair.  "To-morrow  after  church  I  want  you  to  come  over 
to  my  house  and  bring  your  father  and  Mr.  Wornum. 
Will  you  come?" 

"If  Dan  says  so." 

VII 

Miss  Jane  Delivers  a  Lecture 

"This  world's  full  er  funny  people,"  remarked  Miss 
Jane  blandly  as  she  and  Nora  and  the  schoolmaster  sat 
in  the  porch  that  evening  of  the  day  of  Vanderlyn's  ex 
ploit  with  Judge  Walthall's  horses.  "It's  full  er  funny 
people;  an'  the  more  you  live,  the  more  you  fine  it  out. 
They  cut  up  their  rippits  right  befo'  folks'  eyes,  more 
spesherly  the  men.  Everything  the  men  does  the  wimmen 
gotter  to  make  a  great  miration  over  it.  Ef  they  don't  git 
together  and  gabble  over  it  like  a  passel  of  puddle  ducks, 
then  the  men  gits  slighted,  and  thar  ain't  no  end  to  the 
tribalation." 

"This  is  something  new,"  the  schoolmaster  began. 

"No,  it  ain't,  William  Wornum,  and  mighty  well  you 
know  it.  It's  been  so  sense  Adam  cut  up  his  capers  in  the 
gyardins  of  Eden,  an*  it'll  be  so  tell  Gaber'el  blows  his 
horn." 

"It  is  new  to  me,  at  any  rate,"  the  schoolmaster  re 
marked,  blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  in  the  direction  of  the 
moon,  that  seemed  to  float  in  a  sea  of  fleecy  clouds  in  the 
east,  and  wondering  whether  it  would  ever  reach  its  destina 
tion.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  men  are  really  so  anxious 
to  receive  the  applause  of  women  that  they  form  themselves 
into  small  mobs  and  compel  the  weaker  sex  to  sound  their 
praises?" 


318  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"It's  mighty  nigh  got  to  that,"  responded  Miss  Jane. 

"It  is  curious,  though,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "how  far 
a  man  will  go  to  merit  the  approval  of  women.  In  the  old 
days  men  were  in  the  habit  of  hewing  and  hacking  each 
other  to  pieces  in  the  face  of  the  multitude  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  crowning  some  fair  lady  queen  of  love  and 
beauty.  But  there  is  neither  hewing  nor  hacking  in  these 
times.'" 

"Lord  knows,  William  Wornum,  they  didn't  mangle  one 
another  fer  the  sake  er  the  wimmen.  It  wuz  the'r  vanity 
a-bilin'  in  'em.  Look  at  Emory  Reed,  a-primpin',  a-per- 
fumin'  hisself.  He  never  darkens  this  door  that  I  don't 
expec'  to  hear  'im  holler  out:  'Look  at  me,  folks.  Ain't  I 
a  purty  pink?"J 

The  schoolmaster  laughed.  "You  must  excuse  Emory, 
Miss  Jane.  He  is  in  love." 

"Well,  mercy  knows,  I'd  hate  to  set  my  cap  fer  'im ! 
I'd  be  a f card  he  wouldn't  w'ar  well.  Silk  gloves  don't 
cure  bone  felons." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Reed  in  love  with,  Mr.  Wornum?"  queried 
Nora. 

"I  am  afraid  to  give  the  young  lady's  name,"  said  the 
schoolmaster  rather  coldly.  "But  she  is  quite  worthy  of 
him." 

"She  is  a  good  woman,  then,"  said  the  blind  girl. 

"Young  foxes,"  remarked  Miss  Jane  pointedly,  "don't 
know  the  difference  between  a  spring  pullet  and  a  settin' 
hen." 

"Does  Miss  Nora  stand  for  the  fox,  or  is  it  young 
Reed?"  asked  the  schoolmaster. 

"I  call  no  names,"  replied  Miss  Jane. 

"O,  I'm  the  fox,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Nora,  laughing 
gayly.  "I  am  the  young  fox,  and  sister  is  the  old  fox." 

"Fo'ks  run  well  when  the'r  shoes  fit  'em,"  was  the  sen 
tentious  comment  of  Miss  Jane. 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while,  but  William  Wor- 
num's  landlady  was  not  satisfied  with  the  abrupt  turn  that 
the  conversation  had  taken. 

"It  ain't  only  the  slick-lookin'  men  that  wanter  show 
themselves  off,"  continued  Miss  Jane.  "Thar's  that  Dan 
Vanderlyn.  I  wish  I  may  die  ef  he  wuzzent  the  impi- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  319 

dentest-lookin*  man  when  he  come  back  a-drivinj  that  carry 
all  er  Judge  Walthall's  that  I  ever  laid  eyes  on." 

''His  appearance  was  somewhat  deceitful  then.  A  more 
embarrassed  man  I  have  never  seen.  His  confusion  was 
unaccountable." 

"I  seen  'im,"  persisted  Miss  Jane;  "an'  ef  he  wa'n't  as 
proud  as  a  jay  bird  with  six  eggs  in  'is  nest,  then  I  ain't 
no  judge  er  human  natur." 

"He  had  a  right  to  be  proud,"  said  Nora. 

"No,"  remarked  the  schoolmaster ;  "he  ought  to  be 
thankful  that  the  horses  didn't  trample  upon  him.  He 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  two  or  three  doctors  are  not  at 
this  moment  setting  his  bones  and  sawing  off  his  limbs, 
hewing  and  hacking  him  where  there  would  be  no  multi 
tude  to  witness  the  courage  with  which  he  faced  the  sur 
geons'  knives." 

"An'  that  ain't  all,"  Miss  Jane  continued,  evidently  un 
impressed  by  the  schoolmaster's  comparisons;  "that  ain't 
all.  He's  been  totin'  pervisions  out  here  to  ole  'Cajy 
Cooper.  No  longer'n  day  before  yistiddy  he  h'isted  up 
an*  took  a  sack  er  flour  an'  a  middlin'  er  meat  out  thar." 

"Some  people  call  that  charity,"  the  schoolmaster  said. 

"A  hen  that  lays  in  another  hen's  nest  don't  hatch  menny 
chickens,  I  reckon,"  was  Miss  Jane's  comment.  She  al 
ways  vanquished  her  opponents  with  her  homely  axioms. 

"But  the  chickens  are  hatched  and  well  taken  care  of 
for  all  that,"  said  William  Wornum. 

"An*  what  sorter  charity  is  that  that  lets  ev'rybody  know 
what  it's  a-doin'?"  Miss  Jane  continued. 

"Vanderlyin  didn't  mention  the  matter  to  me,"  said  the 
schoolmaster. 

"No.  But  didn't  he  buy  the  vittles  at  Padgett's,  an* 
didn't  he  know  that  Sue  Padgett  'ud  spread  it  all  over  the 
county  ?" 

"I  dare  say  he  wouldn't  know  Mrs.  Padgett  if  he  were 
to  meet  her  on  the  street.  But  for  the  sake  of  poor  'Cajy 
Cooper  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  Mrs.  Padgett's  activity  will 
neither  spoil  the  meat  nor  make  the  flour  musty." 

"It  takes  a  hot  day  to  spile  a  beggar's  meat,"  was  Miss 
Jane's  comment. 

"And  a  longer  and  a  sharper  tongue  than  Mrs.  Padgett's 


320  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

to  make  my  friend  Vanderlyn's  charity  ungracious.  Now, 
here's  Uncle  Ben  [as  the  old  negro  entered  the  gate]  ;  we'll 
see  what  he  says  about  it.  Come  here,  Uncle  Ben,  and  sit 
down  on  the  steps.  I  want  to  get  your  opinion." 

Uncle  Ben  came  up,  hat  in  hand.  "Howdy,  Mistiss; 
howdy,  Miss  No'a ;  howdy,  Marse  Willium." 

"Uncle  Ben/'  said  the  schoolmaster,  "I  want  your  opin 
ion  on  a  very  important  matter/' 

"Lor',  honey!  Wat  sorter  'pinyun  de  ole  nigger 
gwineter  give  w'ite  folks  ?" 

"The  question  is  this,  Uncle  Ben:  Suppose  you  are  sick 
and  suffering  for  something  to  eat,  and  I  send  you  a  sack 
of  flour  and  a  middling  of  meat.  Mrs.  So-and-So  finds 
it  out  by  some  means  and  runs  and  tells  her  neighbors,  and 
her  neighbors  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  send  you  the 
provisions  merely  because  I  want  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
kind-hearted  man.  I  want  your  opinion  of  the  matter." 

"Iz  de  vittles  sent  to  me,  Marse  Willium  ?" 

"Yes." 

"An*  I  gits  it  all  safe  an'  soun'?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  I'm  lyin'  dar  fa'ly  honein'  arter  a  mou'ful?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  dis,  Marse  Willium:  Dat  vittles  is 
gwineter  do  me  a  nation  sight  mo'  good  dan  de  talk's 
gwineter  ^  do  you  harm.  Leas'ways,  dat's  my  'pinyun,  an' 
I  feel  mighty  good  to'rds  you,  Marse  Willium,  dough  de 
folks  talked  tell  der  tongue  drapped  out.  Ef  it  ain't  in  de 
naberhood  er  char'ty  fer  ter  greaze  a  hongry  man's  motif, 
den  de  folks  w'at  I  hear  'splainin'  de  Bible  done  gone  an' 
got  it  wrong  eend  foremost." 

"Uncle  Ben's  analysis  is  superior  to  yours  or  mine,"  said 
the  schoolmaster  to  Miss  Jane. 

"O,  Ben's  got  more  gab  than  a  jay  bird,"  said  his  mis 
tress.  "When  he  ain't  eatin',  he's  a-talkin';  an'  when  he 
ain't  talking  he's  eatin'.  I  stood  an'  looked  at  him  Monday 
mornin*  a  mortal  hour,  an*  thar  wuzzent  a  minit  that  he 
wan't  talkin'  to  hisself  right  out  loud  an'  gigglin'.  You 
oughter  heern  'im  a-gigglin'." 

Uncle  Ben  scratched  his  head  and  laughed  in  a  confused 
manner. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  321 

"Lordy,  Mistiss,"  he  said  presently,  "you  wouldn't  go 
on  dat  way  ef  you  knowed  who  I  wuz  a-chattin*  wid.  I 
see  sights,  mon.  I  sees  sights  wa't  nobody  else  don't  see." 

"An'  you  can't  wak'  up  no  hour  er  the  night/'  Miss  Jane 
continued  as  persistently  as  before,  "that  you  don't  hear 
Ben.  Sometimes  he's  a-singin',  an'  sometimes  he's  a-quar- 
relin'  with  Feraby,  an*  sometimes  he's  a-disputin'  with  the 
wind." 

"I'm  gwine  'way  fum  here,"  exclaimed  the  old  darky, 
laughing.  "You-all  makin'  it  too  hot  fer  me." 

"Where've  you  been  to-day?  Loafin'  roun'  Floyd's?" 
Miss  Jane  asked. 

"Lordy,  Mistiss,  youse  a  sight!  I  ain't  had  but  one 
dram  dis  blessed  day,  an'  Miss  Padgett  gimme  dat.  I  bin 
over  dare  gyard'nin'.  She's  a  mighty  stirrin'  w'ite  woman, 
Miss  Padgett  is.  She  ax'd  me  ef  we-all  didn't  have  a  mess 
of  Inglish  peas  las'  Chuseday  an'  up  and  said  dat  ef  we 
did  Miss  didn't  save  me  none  er  de  pot  licker,  an'  den  she 
sed  we  wuz  sech  smart  folks  over  here  dat  she  'lowed  we 
had  ripe  peas." 

This  aroused  Miss  Jane's  ire,  as  the  shrewd  old  negro 
knew  it  would.  "It  'ud  pay  some  people  ef  they's  keep 
the'r  nose  outer  other  folks'  bizness.  Who  ast  Sue  Padgett 
to  come  a-stickin'  her  nose  in  my  cupboard,  I'd  like  to 
know." 

"I  dunno'm,"  replied  Uncle  Ben  innocently;  "but  dat 
w'at  she  sed.  I  toler  dat  I  'speck  we'd  have  urn  ripe  'fo'  de 
mont'  wuz  out,  an'  den  I  reckon  you'd  sen'  er  some." 

The  schoolmaster  was  greatly  amused  at  the  tactics  em 
ployed  by  Uncle  Ben  to  exasperate  his  mistress. 

"I'll  see  her  stiff  fust,"  exclaimed  Miss  Jane.  "An*  who 
ast  you  to  be  givin'  'way  my  vegetables  to  other  people?" 

"Goodness,  Mistiss,  I  ain't  give  none  'way !  I  des  'low'd 
dat  you  mout  sen'  'er  sumpin*  fresh,  fer  hit'll  be  a  mighty 
long  time  'fo'  she  gits  hit  outen  her  gyardin." 

"Well,  ef  you  wanter  give  any  green  truck  away,  you 
pull  it  outer  your  own  patch." 

"I'm  gwine.  I  ain't  got  no  time  fer  to  be  settin'  roun' 
here  wid  Mistiss  scoldin'  me  'bout  Miss  Padgett." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Jane  as  though  she  were  describing 
Uncle  Ben  to  a  stranger,  "he'll  go  in  that  kitchen,  and  the 

21 


322  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

fust  thing  you  know  you'll  hear  the  heat  a-sizzin'  an' 
a-fryin',  an*  yit  the  cold  vittles  that  Feraby  took  out  this 
very  day  oughter  last  a  week." 

Uncle  Ben  made  haste  to  get  away,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  occupants  of  the  porch  heard  him  singing  a  hymn, 
giving  out  the  words  to  himself  in  a  most  sonorous  voice 
and  then  intoning  them  in  a  style  peculiar  to  the  negro. 

"A  body  'ud  believe,"  said  Miss  Jane  after  a  little  pause, 
"that  Ben  wuz  a-goin'  right  to  glory,  an'  yit  he'll  go  up 
yonder  to  Floyd's  grocery  an'  tote  water  all  day  fer  a  pint 
er  licker." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  remarked  the  schoolmaster  as  though 
he  had  been  pursuing  an  independent  train  of  thought, 
"how  people  will  let  their  tongues  run.  There  is  Mrs. 
Padgett,  for  instance" — 

"You  may  well  say  that,  William  Wornum,"  responded 
Miss  Jane  with  unction. 

"It  would  scarcely  be  right  to  blame  her  for  talking 
about  Vanderlyn;  but  when  she  goes  so  far  as  to  inquire 
what  people  have  for  dinner,  it  is  about  time  to  examine 
into  the  condition  of  the  country." 

"Well,  Vanderlyn  kin  gitter  'long  independent  er  her,  I 
reckon." 

"O,  there's  no  objection  to  her  talking.  A  little  gossip 
well  seasoned  now  and  then  is  far  more  effective  than  a 
sermon,  provided  the  sermon  be  a  poor  one.  Tattling, 
whether  it  be  idle  or  malicious,  always  conveys  its  own 
moral.  Talking  about  one's  neighbors  is  an  exceedingly 
light-and-air  occupation.  It  ought  to  be  classed  among  the 
professions.  Give  me  a  tin  box  full  of  snuff  and  three  wom 
en  who  are  unhappy  when  they  are  compelled  to  remain  at 
home,  and  I'll  insure  any  reflective  person  an  exceedingly 
pleasant  time.  The  entertainment  will  consist  of  farce, 
comedy,  and  tragedy,  all  in  a  shape  so  mild  that  no  serious 
effects  will  ensue." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Nora,  laughing.  "You 
are  rarely  here,  Mr.  Wornum,  when  your  society  meets. 
[He  had 'called  it  the  Society  for  the  Dissemination  of  Im 
portant  Intelligence.]  When  Mrs.  Pruitt  and  Mrs.  Dusen- 
berry  and  Mrs.  Bagley  come  over  for  an  afternoon,  I  often 
wish  you  could  be  here.  You  lose  a  great  deal." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  323 

"I  propose  to  join  the  society,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"The  time  is  fast  approaching  when  every  good  citizen 
will  be  called  upon  to  talk  about  his  neighbor.  This  is 
directly  in  the  line  of  modern  progress,  and  I  do  not  pro 
pose  to  be  left  behind  when  the  wave  passes  over  the  conn- 
try.  I  propose  also  to  nominate  Vanderlyn  as  a  member. 
He  isn't  much  of  a  talker,  but  he  can  be  trained.  He  is 
very  susceptible." 

VIII 

What  Vanderlyn  Found  in  the  Woods 

Wandering  aimlessly  and  restlessly  in  the  woods  one  day, 
Vanderlyn  came  upon  a  little  log  cabin.  It  was  built  in 
what  might  have  been  termed  an  island  of  pines.  Sur 
rounding  it  upon  all  sides,  the  chestnut,  the  white  oak,  and 
the  hickory  reared  their  lofty  heads  heavenward ;  but  nearer 
still,  and  almost  hiding  the  cabin  with  their  green,  feathery 
foliage,  a  little  thicket  of  pines  had  struggled  into  robust  ex 
istence.  It  is  scarcely  probable  that  Vanderlyn  would  have 
discovered  the  house  had  not  a  gaunt-looking  cur,  lying  in 
the  shade  of  a  sweetbrier,  raised  his  head  and  barked 
feebly.  Going  a  little  nearer,  Vanderlyn  saw  the  house, 
which  was  fast  going  to  ruin.  There  were  no  signs  of  life 
save  the  dog.  Desolation  seemed  to  have  brought  peace 
and  quiet  to  the  place. 

"Hello!"  cried  Vanderlyn.  "Who's  a-keepin'  house? 
Hello  !"  he  yelled  again.  "Is  all  hands  gone  a-visitin'?" 

In  response  to  this  summons  a  pale,  careworn-looking 
woman,  ill  clad  and  with  unkempt  hair,  came  to  the  door. 
''Does  you  want  ennything,  mister?  We  ain't  nothing  but 
a  passel  er  pore  lone  people  here,  and  we  don't  trouble  no 
body  ner  nothin'." 

The  sad  and  hopeless  tone  of  fier  voice  was  as  pitiful  as 
her  appearance. 

"I've  bin  walkin'  'roun'  a  right  smart'm,"  said  Vander 
lyn,  "an'  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  git  er  drink  er  water." 

"You'll  have  ter  come  'roun'  to  the  other  do',  mister." 

Vanderlyn  went,  and  a  sight  met  his  eyes  as  he  lifted 
the  gourd  to  his  lips  that  he  never  forgot  while  he  lived. 
In  the  end  of  the  room  (the  cabin  consisted  of  but  one 
room)  were  two  pallets.  Upon  one  lay  an  old  man  with  hair 


324  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

as  white  as  snow.  The  pallor  of  his  emaciated  face  was 
something  awful,  and  Vanderlyn  at  first  supposed  he  was 
dead.  Upon  the  other  pallet  a  woman  tossed  and  moaned 
and  muttered. 

"What's  the  matter  in  there?"  asked  Vanderlyn  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Starvation!"  The  reply  came  so  suddenly  and  with 
such  terrible  meaning  that  Vanderlyn  was  stunned  for  a 
moment.  "Starvation!"  repeated  the  woman  with  an  em 
phasis  that  made  the  strong  man  before  her  shudder. 
'Tap's  bin  a-lyin'  thar  more'n  a  week,  an'  what  he's  et 
indurin'  that  time  wouldn't  more'n  make  a  meal  fer  a  kit 
ten.  Ef  we  wuz  a-gwine  ter  die,  mister,  we  aint  got  a  bite 
er  bread  er  meat  in  the  house  ner  a  dust  er  meal  er  flour, 
an'  I'm  that  weak  I  can  sca'cely  ketch  one  breath  atter  an 
other.  Ef  it  hadn't  bin  fer  'Cindy  Ashfield,  we'd  V  bin 
dead  by  this  time,  pap  an'  me,  an'  I  wish  ter  the  Lord  she'd 
'a'  let  us  be.  It  'ud  all  'a'  bin  over  by  now.  'Cindy's  lyin' 
over  thar  burnin'  up  with  fever,  an'  she's  bin  lyin'  thar  er 
two  weeks.  I  crawled  down  ter  the  road  this  mornin'  an' 
waited  hours  and  hours,  it  'peared  ter  me,  fer  some  un  ter 
pass.  Ef  you  got  enny  wimmen  folks,  mister,  you  better 
git  down  on  your  knees  in  the  woods  out  thar  an*  ast  the 
Lord  ter  look  atter  um  better'n  He's  looked  atter  us." 

"I  think  I  can  do  better  than  that,"  said  Vanderlyn  in  a 
cheery  voice ;  but  in  spite  of  this  his  thoughts  flew  back 
to  an  old  Virginia  farmhouse  wherein  a  hale  and  hearty 
old  man,  his  white  hair  falling  to  his  shoulders,  sat  and 
smoked  his  pipe  in  peace  and  comfort,  and  where  a  sweet- 
faced  old  woman  smiled  at  the  romping  grandchildren  who 
gathered  around  her.  And  somehow  in  this  connection  he 
thought  of  Jack — Jack,  who  had  never  romped  about  the 
grandmother's  knee  and  over  whose  fair  curls  the  gentle 
hand  of  the  grandfather  had  never  passed.  These  thoughts 
passed  through  Vanderlyn's  mind  so  quickly  and  seemed 
such  a  natural  outgrowth  of  the  woman's  words  that  he 
did  not  pause  to  analyze  them.  He  stepped  into  the  house 
and  stooped  over  the  old  man,  who,  aroused  by  the  unusual 
(the  woman  who  had  spoken  to  Vanderlyn  was  barefooted) 
or  by  the  mysterious  instinct  which  even  in  the  dark  gives 
warning  of  the  presence  of  a  strange  person,  turned  rest- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  325 

lessly  and  called  out  in  a  querulously  feeble  voice :  "Mandy ! 
Mandy !  O  Mandy !" 

"Here  I  is,  pap.    I  ain't  gone." 

"It  take  you  a  mighty  long  time  'bout  dinner,  Mandy,  a 
mighty  long  time.  Make  'aste,  Mandy;  make  'aste,  gal," 
and  then  the  feeble  voice  subsided  to  a  low  muttering  that 
was  quite  pitiful  to  hear. 

^  The  woman  on  the  other  side  was  still  more  restless. 
She  was  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  She  laughed  and  talked 
and  wept,  and  more  than  once  she  called  out:  "Fetch  my 
baby  back,  Jim;  my  little  baby.  Jes'  once,  Jim,  an'  then 
youk'n  take  'im.  O,  fetch  my  baby !" 

"How  fur  might  it  be  to  the  big'road?"  asked  Vanderlyn, 
who,  as  was  his  custom,  had  made  his  way  through  the 
fields  and  woods. 

"Half  a  mile  right  straight  ahead,"  pointing  out  of  the 
door. 

"An'  how  fur  to  town?" 

"Three  mile." 

"Do  ennybody  in  Rockville  know  your  daddy?" 

"Mighty  few  folks  in  these  parts,"  responded  the  woman, 
brightening  up  a  little,  "but  what  knows  'Cajy  Cooper. 
He  uster  be  somebody  when  he  had  money." 

^'Well,  now^ypu  better  set  down  an'  res',"  said  Vanderlyn 
with  some  solicitude.  "Insider  er  two  hours  you'll  hear  me 
rattlin'  up  here,  an'  we'll  see  ef  we  can't  fetch  these  sick 
folks  roun'." 

^  The  woman  did  as  she  was  bid,  collapsing  rather  than 
sitting  down  upon  the  doorsill.  'Til  set  here  tell  you 
come,"  she  said  patiently. 

Vandelyn  disappeared  among  the  thick  pines;  and  the 
woman,  burying  her  face  in  her  arms,  sat  swaying  her  body 
from  side  to  side  and  counting  the  minutes  until  his  return. 
Vanderlyn  reached  the  road,  turned  to  the  right,  and 
walked  toward  Rockville.  Presently  he  heard  the  rattle  of 
a  buggy  behind  him,  and  he  turned  to  look.  It  was  Dr. 
Tidwell— Dr.  Frank,  as  the  people  of  Rockville,  old  and 
young,  called  him.  Vanderlyn  gave  a  yell  that  astonished 
the  Doctor's  horse  and  surprised  the  placid  old  gentleman 
himself. 


326  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Why,  bless  my  soul,  man !"  he  exclaimed  as  Vanderlyn 
came  running  back,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"I  tell  you  what,  Doc,  ef  this  ain't  provadence,  then  I'm 
a  dirt  eater.  I  wuz  jes'  gwine  arter  you,  an'  here  you  is. 
Do  you  know  'Cajy  Cooper  ?" 

"I  ought  to.    We  went  to  school  together." 

"Well,  the  folks  at  his  house  is  mighty  sick,  an'  he's 
wussen  sick.  He's  starvin'." 

"Tut,  tut!"  exclaimed  the  well-fed  old  physician.  "I'd 
like  to  hear  of  a  man  starving  in  this  county.  Why,  sir, 
it  would  revolt  public  sentiment.  It  would  be  worse  than 
assassination." 

"My  witness  ain't  fur,  Doc,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "an'  I  want 
you  ter  come  an'  look  at  'im." 

"Very  well,  I'll  go.  But  I  tell  you  the  thing  is  impossible. 
My  son  is  the  ordinary,  and  he" — 

"This  way,  Doc,"  said  Vanderlyn,  seizing  the  reins  and 
turning  into  the  woods.  "It's  right  over  yonder."  And 
the  Doctor's  gray,  which  had  ambled  peacefully  over  the 
red  hills  and  far-reaching  valleys  of  that  section,  was  urged 
into  a  gallop.  The  rickety  old  buggy  spun  through  the 
trees  in  the  most  confusing  manner,  but  before  the  aston 
ished  physician  could  frame  a  protest  the  buggy  was  pulled 
up  at  the  door  of  the  cabin. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Doc,  ef  you  gwineter  be  enny  good 
roun'  here',  you  got  ter  be  mighty  spry." 

Dr.  Tidwell  did  not  respond  to  this.  He  was  looking  at 
the  haggard  face  of  the  woman  sitting  in  the  door,  who 
had  raised  her  head  as  the  buggy  came  rattling  up. 

"Why,  bless  my  soul,  Mandy!  What's  the  matter  with 
you?"  The  old  man  had  known  her  from  a  child. 

"Lack  er  vittles,  Dr.  Tidwell,"  she  replied  with  a  pitiful 
attempt  at  a  smile. 

"Who've  you  got  sick  here?" 

"Me  an'  pap  an  'Cindy  Ashfield." 

The  physician  got  his  medicine  case  from  under  the  seat 
of  the  buggy  and  went  into  the  house.  The  old  man  was 
still  muttering  and  giving  feeble  directions  about  his  imagi 
nary  dinner,  and  'Cindy  Ashfield  was  imploring  "Jim"  to 
bring  her  baby  back.  Presently  the  Doctor  came  to  the 
door  again.  His  face  was  pale,  and  he  appeared  to  be  ex- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  327 

cited.  "Mr.  Vanderlyn,  I  wish  you  would  drive  to  town 
and  ask  Dr.  Ramsey  to  come  out  here  as  quick  as  he  can. 
This  is  a  serious  piece  of  business,  a  very  serious  piece  of 
business.  Tell  Ramsay  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Then  drive  to 
my  house  and  tell  my  wife  to  send  a  chicken,  some  rice, 
and  all  the  cold  victuals  she  has  in  the  house,  and  don't  be 
rough  with  Maggie." 

Maggie  was  the  mare,  the  ambling  gray,  and  Vanderlyn 
wasn't  very  rough  on  her;  but  people  whom  he  passed  on 
the  road  said  afterwards  that  nobody  would  have  thought 
the  old  nag — she  was  a  sort  of  landmark  in  that  section — 
had  so  much  life  in  her.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Maggie 
was  somewhat  astonished,  but  she  was  too  conservative  in 
her  methods  to  make  any  demonstration.  She  merely  bent 
her  head  to  the  bit,  and  in  a  very  short  time  Vanderlyn  was 
in  Rockville.  It  was  not  long  before  Maggie  was  return 
ing  with  an  addition  to  her  burden  of  Dr.  Ramsay,  a  ham 
per  of  provisions,  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  was  sug 
gested  by  the  thoughtfulness  of  the  young  physician. 

It  was  a  long  struggle  the  old  doctor  and  his  colleague 
had  with  disease  and  the  results  of  want.  For  weeks  'Cajy 
Cooper  and  'Cindy  Ashfield  lay  almost  in  the  arms  of  death. 
They  were  provided  with  every  comfort,  and  Vanderlyn 
watched  by  their  bedside  night  after  night  until  he  came 
to  regard  them  as  specially  in  his  charge.  There  was  some 
thing  weird  in  the  monotony  of  thus  ministering  to  the 
sick,  engulfed,  as  it  seemed  to  Vanderlyn,  in  the  darkness 
of  the  woods  and  the  still  greater  darkness  of  the  night. 
What  strange  thoughts  came  to  him  in  his  loneliness  will 
never  be  known ;  but  sitting  in  the  door,  watching  the  far- 
off  stars  and  listening  to  the  gentle  sighing  of  the  pines, 
he  caught  glimpses  of  the  man  Vanderlyn  and  came  to 
know  him  more  intimately  than  ever  before.  How  few 
men  ever  have  opportunities  of  meeting  themselves  face 
to  face  in  earnest  but  friendly  communion!  "Know  your 
self  if  you  would  know  all  men,"  says  an  old  writer;  but 
no  such  philosophy  occurred  to  the  uncultivated  giant  who 
was  playing  the  part  of  the  good  Samaritan.  It  is  more, 
than  likely  that  culture  would  have  driven  him  into  other 
and  perhaps  higher  realms  of  reverie;  but  could  it  have 
enabled  him  to  put  his  thoughts  in  words  when  his  other 


328  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

self,  as  it  seemed,  stalked  out  of  the  misty  pines  and  stood 
before  him,  shadowy  but  arrogant,  they  would  have  been 
something  like  this : 

"Who  are  you?"  to  the  shadow. 

"Daniel  Vanderlyn." 

"Who  am  I?" 

"I  neither  know  who  you  are  nor  what  you  will  be." 

"I  am  rid  of  Vanderlyn,  then?" 

."He  will  never  trouble  you  any  more." 

"It  is  better  so.  Let  him  go  his  ways  about  the  world. 
I  shall  remain  here  and  do  my  duty." 

"But  I  was  kind  to  you,"  from  the  shadow. 

"After  a  fashion,  yes.  Kinder  to  me  than  I  will  be  to 
you." 

"I  gave  you  a  child." 

"That  was  well.  But  I  will  never  wander  up  and  down 
the  world  with  him  as  you  did/' 

"Then  you  will  never  find  your  enemy,  the  man  you  have 
been  pursuing." 

"I  have  forgiven  him.  The  act  that  made  him  my  enemy 
gave  me  all  the  happiness  I  have  ever  had.  He  was  my 
benefactor." 

And  so,  with  the  pines  sighing  gently,  the  stars  glittering 
overhead,  a  screech  owl  shivering  and  crying  in  the  woods, 
and  a  woman  in  the  delirium  of  fever  calling  for  her  baby 
always,  Daniel  Vanderlyn  communed  with  the  shadow  of 
himself  that  arose  and  came  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

IX 

A  Cautious  Kinsman 

It  came  to  pass,  therefore,  that  while  Mrs.  Padgett  wai> 
dispensing  her  gossip  and  dipping  her  snuff,  and  while  Miss 
Jane  Ferryman  was  delivering  her  lecture,  Vanderlyn  was 
either  wandering  between  William  Wornum's  academy  and 
'Cajy  Cooper's,  or  sitting  in  the  door  of  the  rude  log  cabin 
listening  to  the  katydids  and  the  feeble  cries  of  the  woman 
tossing  and  rolling  in  the  delirium  of  fever,  or  communing 
in  a  half  serious  or  half  humorous  way  with  the  shadow 
of  himself  that  seemed  to  gather  shape  in  the  oppressive 
loneliness  and  gloom  of  the  dark.  It  came  to  pass  also 


Early  Literary  Efforts  32$ 

that  he  did  not  accept  Judge  Walthall's  invitation  to  dine 
with  him  the  day  after  the  little  incident  with  the  horses. 
He  watched  with  the  sick  during  the  long  nights  and  joined 
the  schoolboys  in  their  sports  in  the  cool  afternoons.  Only 
Jack,  the  schoolmaster,  and  Dr.  Tidwell  knew  of  his  mis 
sion,  and  these  seemed  to  regard  his  utter  devotion  to  his 
charges  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  something  characteristic 
of  the  man ;  but  none  of  them  who  could  have  followed 
him  to  the  hovel  where  distress  seemed  to  have  taken  up 
her  abode  would  have  recognized  the  Vanderlyn  who 
romped  and  played  with  the  children  in  the  man  who  sat 
in  the  cabin  door  as  silent  as  the  gloom  itself,  thinking, 
dreaming,  watching,  endeavoring  to  solve  a  problem  that  al 
ways  eluded  him.  If  he  had  dreamed  that  he  was  nursing 
back  to  life  one  of  the  only  two  persons  who  could  solve  this 
problem  for  him,  perhaps  he  might  have  faltered  in  his 
work  of  charity.  Perhaps  if  the  future  could  have  been 
unfolded  to  him  as  he  sat  night  after  night  gazing  into 
darkness,  if  the  shadow  of  his  old  self  with  which  he  com 
muned  could  have  had  the  gift  of  prophecy,  he  would  have 
taken  Jack  by  the  hand  and  wandered  forth  through  the 
blossoming  fields  into  strange  lands.  We  shall  never  know. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  shadow  could  not  prophesy, 
and  he  remained  to  face  the  future  with  the  serene  confi 
dence  and  courage  that  made  him  more  of  a  man  than  most 
of  his  fellows.  He  knew  he  had  a  duty  to  perform;  and 
though  this  was  the  problem  that  returned  always  to  per 
plex  him,  he  never  for  a  moment  faltered.  He  must  do  his 
duty,  but  how  and  when?  This  was  the  question. 

Thus,  with  the  problem  continually  before  him  and  his 
other  self  flitting  through  the  pines  a  pitiful  ghost  of  the 
past,  he  ministered  to  the  sick  and  watched  the  legions  of 
wakeful  stars  sweep  slowly  across  the  skies  in  vain  pursuit 
of  the  sun.  But  after  a  few  nights  his  loneliness,  except 
in  a  vague  way,  ceased  to  oppress  him;  and  his  problem, 
while  it  was  ever  present,  no  longer  vexed  him.  The  sol 
emn  silences  by  which  he  was  surrounded  seemed  to  soothe 
him,  and  the  night  wind  rippling  tremulously  through  the 
leaves  of  the  oak  and  softly  through  the  feathery  boughs 
of  the  pines  ministered  unto  his  vexations,  so  that  what- 


330  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ever  thought  or  feeling  came  to  worry  was  quickly  dissi 
pated  by  his  surroundings. 

Neither  poet  nor  philosopher  has  written  adequately  of 
the  vast  silence  of  the  deep  woods  when  night  has  muffled 
all  ordinary  sounds.  We  chatter  of  this  as  of  the  infinity 
of  space  and  pass  it  by ;  we  make  faces  at  the  moon  and 
measure  the  voids  that  yawn  upon  her  sterile  surface ;  we 
look  at  the  sun  and  run  trippingly  back  to  her  first  eclipse ; 
we  weigh  Sirius  and  boast  of  having  measured  Mercury ; 
we  laugh  at  the  wandering  comet  that  rushes  through  the 
skies,  pursued  by  myriads  of  meteors,  and  we  entangle  the 
shining  star  drifts;  but  we  cannot  solve  the  mysteries  nor 
measure  the  magnitude  of  the  silence  that  seems  to  settle 
upon  all  nature  and  all  space  in  the  lonely  hours  of  night. 
It  appears  to  be  a  cause  rather  than  a  condition,  marvelous 
and  awe-inspiring.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  silence  that 
Vanderlyn,  for  want  of  something  better  to  do,  came  to 
inspect  himself  and  to  analyze  his  feelings  and  impulses, 
not  gloomily,  but  cheerfully,  as  one  engages  in  a  pastime; 
and  thus  it  was  that  he  came  to  know  himself. 

A  few  nights  after  Vanderlyn  had  installed  himself  as 
nurse  he  was  sitting  in  his  accustomed  place  in  the  door 
when  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  some  one 
walking  in  the  underbrush.  It  was  a  strange  sound  to  hear 
in  that  place  at  that  hour  (the  position  of  the  stars  showed 
that  it  was  about  twelve  o'clock),  and  Vanderlyn  was 
curious  to  know  what  manner  of  person  was  abroad  in  the 
wilderness.  The  sound  of  the  footsteps  came  nearer  and 
then  suddenly  ceased.  Then  it  began  again,  ceased  once 
more,  seemed  to  come  forward,  and  finally  developed  into 
the  figure  of  a  man  moving  somewhat  cautiously  in  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  pines.  Vanderlyn  watched  it  with  some 
curiosity.  It  appeared  to  him  one  of  the  many  phenomena 
of  the  loneliness  that  surrounded  him  like  the  waters  of  a 
sea,  but  the  figure  still  pressed  forward  and  came  nearer 
until  it  stood  quite  close  to  the  silent  watcher. 

"You  look  like  you  sorter  mistook  your  bearin's,  stran 
ger." 

"No,"  said  the  newcomer.  "I'm  a-huntin'  up  them  that's 
lost  them." 

"What  might  your  name  be?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  331 

"That's  neither  here  ner  than  Hit  ain't  a  name  that'll 
stand  bandyin'  about  in  the  dark." 

"A  man's  good  name,"  said  Vanderlyn  carelessly,  "don't 
gether  no  dust  a-passin'  f  rum  mouth  ter  mouth." 

"No,  I  reckon  not,"  responded  the  stranger,  "an'  it 
don't  lose  nuthin'  by  bein'  let  'lone.  Similarly  I  ain't  wor 
ried  'bout  your'n,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  to  up  an'  ast  you  fer  it. 
I'm  a-huntin'  a  woman  named  'Cindy  Ashfield." 

"You  ain't  got  fur  to  look,"  said  Vanderlyn  quietly. 
"She's  lyin'  in  thar  at  the  pint  er  death." 

"Sick?"  asked  the  man  eagerly,  coming  nearer. 

"You'd  think  it.  Outer  her  head  the  whole  blessed  time 
an'  a-talkin  eternally." 

"Will  she  die?" 

"The  doctor  can't  tell.  It's  a  tough  'rastle.  She  gits 
better  ez  soon's  she  gits  wuss,  an'  gits  wuss  ez  soon's  she 
gits  better." 

"Does  she  know  folks?" 

"She  wouldn't  know  her  own  mammy  frum  Adam's 
house  cat." 

Just  then  the  woman  turned  uneasily  in  her  bed  and  be 
gan  to  talk  in  the  delirious  fashion  of  those  who  are  suffer 
ing  from  an  extreme  fever.  It  was  the  same  old  cry  to 
which  Vanderlyn  had  become  used :  "Jim  !  Jim  !  O  Jim !" 

"It's  me  she's  a-callin',"  exclaimed  the  stranger  in  a 
suppressed  voice.  "Nobody  on  this  earth  but  me." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  it's  me.  I  know  it.  'Cindy  wouldn't  holler  fer  no 
livin'  soul  like  that  'ceptin'  it  wuz  me." 

"Please,  Jim,  fetch  back  my  baby,  my  little  baby,  my 
poor  little  baby!  O,  fetch  'im'back,  Jim !  Jes'  once,  Tim! 
My  little  baby'!" 

"No,  'tain't  me,"  said  the  man  eagerly.  "It's  somebody 
else  she's  a-hollerin'  arter.  'Tain't  me." 

"Do  you  know  her?"  Vanderlyn  asked. 

"Do  yon  know  your  sister?" 

"It  is  doubtful,"  Vanderlvn  responded.  "And  so  you're 
her  brother?  Well,  Mr.  Jeems  Ashfield,  I  am  glad  you 
dropped  around.  It  wuz  gittin'  durned  lonesome  a-settin' 
here  lissenin'  to  the  crickets  and  the  scritch  owls." 

"Does  she  take  on  much  like  this  ?"  asked  Ashfield. 


332  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Frum  mornin'  tell  night  an*  frum  night  tell  mornin*. 
Won't  you  go  in  an*  see  "Cindy?" 

"No,  not  jes*  yit.  Hit  mout  sorter  daze  'er,  you  know. 
Delereousness  ain't  gbtter  be  tampered  with,  they  tells  me." 

The  man  was  evidently  restless  and  nervous.  He  stood 
first  upon  one  foot  and  then  upon  the  other  and  rubbed  his 
hands  together  incessantly. 

"You  ain't  got  nuthin'  that  'ud  fit  the  dampness  like  a 
dram,  is  you?"  he  asked  finally. 

"No,"  said  Vanderlyn.  "Licker's  too  hot  fer  this  kinder 
weather." 

"Wouldn't  be  too  hot  fer  me,"  responded  the  other. 
"I'm  beginning  to  feel  right  coolish.  Well/'  after  a  pause, 
"I  mus'  be  gittin'  'long.  Clocks  don't  stop  an'  wait  fer  a 
feller  to  Stan'  'roun'  an*  turn  loose  his  jaw,  an*  I  got  a 
mighty  fur  ways  to  sa'nter." 

"You  might  as  well  go  in  an*  see  'Cindy/'  Vanderlyn 
persisted. 

"'Twouldn't  do  no  good,  Cap;  she  wouldn't  know  me, 
an'  I  dessay  I  wouldn't  know  her.  Hit's  'bout  even.  But 
I'd  like  ding  nation  well  to  know  who  that  Jim  is  she's 
a-callin'  on." 

"Maybe  she  knows  an'  maybe  she  don't,"  answered  Van 
derlyn  dryly. 

"That's  what  make  I  say  what  I  do,"  continued  the  other. 
"I  don't  know  no  Jim  but  me,  an'  the  baby  is  a  bran'-new 
wrinkle.  But  it's  bin  mighty  nigh  six  years  sence  I  seed 
'Cindy,  an'  I  dunno  what's  turned  up  in  that  time." 

"You've  been  travelin',  I  reckon,"  Vanderlyn  suggested. 

"Edzackly  so,  Cap,  goin'  'bout  frum  pos'  to  piller.  I 
didn't  find  'Cindy  at  home  an*  'lowed  maybe  she  might  be 
visitin'  at  Mandy  Cooper's.  Well,  I'll  drap  in  sometime 
when  Cindy  mightn't  be  worried  by  strangers." 

"Youer  her  brother,  ain't  you?"  Vanderlyn  inquired  as 
the  man  walked  off  into  the  darkness. 

"Yes,  I  am,  but  what  kin  I  do?" 

"O,  nothin'.    Good  night." 

The  sound  of  the  man's  footsteps  died  away,  the  crickets 
and  the  katydids  endeavored  to  impress  Vanderlyn  with 
their  presence,  and  a  whippoorwill  added  her  voice  to  the 
concert. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  333 

"Her  brother!"  Vanderlyn  mused,  lighting  his  pipe  and 
walking  out  under  the  shadow  of  the  pines.  "She  ought 
ter  be  proud  of  sech  kin.  A  man  that  stays  away  six  year 
makes  himself  ska'se,  an*  yit  [remembering  the  little  farm 
house  in  Virginia]  a  man  that  stays  away  fifteen  year 
makes  himself  ska'ser.  I'm  a  sinner  ef  he  don't." 

The  next  morning  Vanderlyn  rode  to  Rockville  with  Dr. 
Tidwell,  who  visited  the  sick  twice  a  day. 

"Doc,"  said  Vanderlyn  after  the  two  had  ridden  in  silence 
some  little  distance,  "is  'Cindy  Ashfield  got  a  brother?" 

"Well,  really,  now  let  me  see.    It  can't  be  Jim" — 

"That's  the  party/'  exclaimed  Vanderlyn.  "He  give  us 
a  pop  call  last  night." 

"Jim  Ashfield!"  bringing  Maggie  to  a  standstill  in  the 
road. 

"That's  what  he  says,  an'  he's  a  good  witness,  I  reckin." 

"Why,  bless  my  life,  it  can't  be  Jim  Ashfield.  With  all 
his  villainy,  he's  no  fool.  He  doesn't  dare  to  come  back 
here.  It  was  as  much  as  my  son  and  the  sheriff  could  do 
to  prevent  the  people  from  lynching  him  not  six  years  ago. 
He'd  be  strung  up  sure.  Why,  he's  the  confoundest  scoun 
drel  unhung,  that  same  Jim  Ashfield.  You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  that  the  rascal  is  back  again?" 

"That's  what  he  said,  Doc.  He  didn't  hang  roun*  long. 
What's  he  done?" 

"Why,  bless  my  soul!  Haven't  you  heard  about  Jim 
Ashfield  ?  Any  child  can  tell  you.  He  is  the  most  notorious 
rascal  in  Georgia." 

"Did  he  kill  ennything?" 

"Worse  than  that,  sir,"  replied  the  Doctor  with  judicial 
gravity.  "Worse  than  that.  He's  an  incendiary  and  a 
child  stealer." 

"A  child  stealer?"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn,  growing  grave 
himself. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  child  stealer." 

"When  was  this,  Doc?" 

"In  1841.  The  way  of  it  was  this :  He  was  forever  hang 
ing  around  Judge  Walthall's  plantation,  mixing  and^  min 
gling  with  the  negroes  and  giving  them  whisky,  until  one 
day  the  Judge  caught  him  sneaking  about  the  place  and 


334  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

ordered  him  off.  The  next  day  the  Judge's  dwelling  house 
was  burned." 

"Burned?" 

"Yes,  sir,  burned  to  the  ground ;  and  but  for  the  carriage 
driver,  who  happened  to  hear  the  popping  and  cracking  of 
the  flames,  the  Walthall  family  would  have  been  roasted 
alive.  Yes,  sir,  roasted  alive." 

"Did  they  ketch  him?" 

"He  was  suspected,  arrested,  and  brought  to  trial ;  but 
the  testimony  was  not  sufficient  to  convict  him,  though 
public  opinion  had  already  made  up  its  verdict." 

(She  returned,  the  child  was  gone.  It  couldn't  be  found 
high  nor  low.  Jim  Ashfield  had  been  seen  in  Rockville 
early  that  morning,  and  suspicion  immediately  fastened 
upon  him.")1 

"How  old  wuz  the  baby,  Doc?" 

"Nearly  a  year  old  and  as  bright  a  child  as  you  ever  saw." 

"Is  the  baby  ever  bin  found?" 

"We  scoured  the  country,"  continued  Dr.  Tidwell,  "but 
no  Jim  Ashfield  could  we  find ;  and  it  was  more  than  a  year 
after  that  when  old  Davy  Roach,  who  had  hauled  a  load  of 
cotton  to  Augusta,  laid  eyes  on  the  wretch  and  had  him  ar 
rested.  At  first  he  denied  that  he  had  stolen  the  child,  but 
finally  agreed  to  restore  it  if  Judge  Walthall  would  guaran 
tee  not  to  prosecute  him  and  to  get  him  safe  out  of  town. 
The  Judge  jumped  at  the  proposition,  but  the  boys  wouldn't 
hear  to  it  until  Mrs.  Walthall  appeared  among  them.  And 
where  do  you  suppose  the  baby  was  found?  Why,  sir, 
'Cindy  Ashfield  had  it  all  the  time,  even  the  clothes  it  had 
on  when  it  was  stolen.  A  poor  weak-minded  creature 
'Cindy  is.  She  took  on  awful  when  the  Judge  and  his  wife 
and  the  crowd  went  to  get  the  child.  She  was  really  fond 
of  it,  and  she  carried  on  to  such  an  extent  that  Mrs.  Wal 
thall  employed  her  as  nurse,  and  she  nursed  the  baby  until 
it  died." 

"Did  the  baby  die  ?"  asked  Vanderlyn. 

"Yes,  sir.     It  never  thrived.     It  just  faded  away.     And 

1This  matter  in  parenthesis  was  published  just  so  in  the  Constitu 
tion,  indicating  unfinished  work  in  Mr.  Harris's  manuscript. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  335 

so  Jim  Ashfield's  back  again?    Well,  he'll  have  some  fun 
if  he  makes  himself  too  prominent  around  here.'' 


Voices  in  the  Night 

Vanderlyn  made  no  more  inquiries  of  the  worthy  doctor, 
who,  taking  advantage  of  the  silence  that  ensued,  fell  into 
what  the  newspaper  reporter  of  the  present  day  would  not 
inaptly  term  "a  genial  doze."  It  was  his  custom,  and  in 
inaugurating  it  he  illustrated  in  a  very  forcible  manner  one 
of  Miss  Jane's  impromptu  proverbs  to  the  effect  that  "It's 
an  honest  man  that'll  trust  hisself  with  his  own  horse/' 
The  mare  knew  her  way,  and  as  she  ambled  along  Dr.  Tid- 
well  slept  and  Daniel  Vanderlyn  surrendered  himself  to 
his  thoughts,  and  these  invariably  carried  him  back  to  the 
sick  woman  calling  for  her  baby  and  the  old  man  who  had 
so  narrowly  escaped  falling  a  victim  to  hunger.  Somehow 
or  other  he  was  not  troubled  about  Jack  as  in  the  old  days. 
Nor  need  he  have  been.  The  boy  rapidly  grew  in  the  good 
graces  of  Miss  Jane  Ferryman  and  the  schoolmaster.  He 
was  bright  and  tractable,  and  his  precocity  never  assumed 
the  shape  of  pertness.  In  the  evenings,  while  Vanderlyn 
was  engaged  in  his  work  of  charity,  the  boy  would  lay  his 
head  in  the  old  lady's  lap  and  listen  quietly  to  the  conver 
sation,  occasionally  making  some  modest  comment  of  his 
own  or  asking  a  question,  and  Miss  Jane  never  seemed  so 
well  contented  as  when  she  was  passing  her  hands  caress 
ingly  through  the  thick  curls  of  the  little  boy,  who  was  so 
good-natured,  so  patient,  and  so  obedient.  Upon  such  oc 
casions  it  was  observed  by  the  schoolmaster  that  she  was 
not  as  critical  in  her  remarks  and  that  even  the  tone  of  her 
voice  lost  something  of  its  old-time  asperity. 

They  had  famous  times — Miss  Ferryman,  Nora,  the 
schoolmaster,  and  Jack.  They  constituted  a  little  social 
world  of  their  own,  the  quiet  of  which  was  never  disturbed 
save  by  the  visit  of  some  newcomer  or  the  untimely  sere 
nades  of  Tiny  Padgett,  the  village  poet,  who  made  no  at 
tempt  to  conceal  that  he  was  in  love  with  Nora.  Unfortu 
nately,  Tiny's  serenades  were  generally  the  result  of  that 
befuddled  condition  of  mind  that  usually  waits  upon  a  too 


336  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

frequent  inspection  of  wine  when  it  is  red;  and  when  his 
weak  voice  rose  upon  the  night  air  in  startling  proximity 
to  the  quiet  people  who  sat  in  the  little  porch,  Miss  Jane 
was  wont  to  remark :  "Well,  I  wish  I  may  die  ef  that  Pad 
gett  chap  ain't  on  another  spree !" 

"O,  don't  make  fun  of  him,  sister/'  Miss  Nora  would  say. 

And  then  the  schoolmaster :  "No ;  the  boy's  in  love." 

"Well,  ef  I  wuz  Nora,  I'd  marry  him  twice  over  but  what 
I'd  stop  that  racket.  It  makes  a  body  feel  right  flabby  to 
listen  to  'im.  It's  sorter  like  wringin'  the  water  outer  a  raw 
oyster." 

In  justice  to  the  love-smitten  poet  it  must  be  said  that  he 
was  oftener  sober  than  drunk,  and  upon  such  occasions  he 
contented  himself  with  lounging  upon  a  bench  in  front  of 
Vanderlyn's  shop  and  watching  his  lady  love's  window  from 
afar.  Through  the  mysterious  influence  of  that  pity  which 
the  strong  feel  for  the  weak  or  from  some  other  cause 
Vanderlyn  had  come  to  be  on  very  familiar  terms  with 
young  Padgett,  who  in  his  maudlin  way  was  blindly  de 
voted  to  Vanderlyn.  One  evening,  some  weeks  after  'Cindy 
Ashfield  and  'Cajy  Cooper  had  been  pronounced  convales 
cent  by  Dr.  Tidwell,  the  occupants  of  Miss  Jane's  porch 
saw  the  light  of  a  cigar  shining  in  the  direction  of  Vander 
lyn's  shop.  It  was  a  signal  that  Tiny  Padgett  was  on  hand. 

"The  faithful  lover  is  at  his  post,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"Well,  I  hope  to  gracious  he  ain't  chimed  up,"  remarked 
Miss  Jane  fervently.  "Why  don't  the  little  wretch  act  like 
white  folks  an'  come  in  the  house.  Nobody  won't  bite 
him,  I  reckon." 

"Poets  are  sensitive,"  the  schoolmaster  said.  "They  pre 
fer  to  worship  at  a  distance.  Mocking  birds  never  sing  in 
flocks.  The  old  troubadours  never  went  in  droves,  and 
even  the  wood  robin  hides  himself  to  sing." 

"Well,  why  don't  Padgett  hide,  I  wonder?  Why  don't 
he  go  off  in  the  woods,  where  nobody  can't  hear  him  ?  It's 
good  fer  him  that  he  don't  come  a-howlin'  under  the  win 
dows,  else  he'd  git  a  shovelful  er  hot  ashes." 

But  the  poet  did  not  tune  his  voice  to  sing,  and  presently 
those  who  sat  in  the  porch  heard  footsteps  coming  down 
the  street. 

"That's  Dan,"  said  Jack  with  sudden  interest. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  337 

"Let's  wait  an*  see  what  they  say,"  said  Miss  Jane. 

The  strong,  hearty  voice  of  Vanderlyn  broke  the  silence: 
"Why,  hello,  little  Padg!  You  here?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  poet  in  a  piping  voice,  suggestive  of 
an  accumulation  of  thought.  "Yes,  I  thought  I'd  come  out 
and  cool  off  a  little  and  have  a  chat  with  you." 

"You're  mighty  backward,  Padg.  Ef  you  don't  mind,  that 
young  Reed'll  cut  you  out." 

In  spite  of  himself  this  allusion  to  Emory  Reed  jarred 
unpleasantly  upon  the  schoolmaster's  ear,  and  he  moved 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  "You've  gotter  be  mighty  spry  ef  you 
git  ahead  er  Reed.  They  tell  me  that  he  breaks  a  bottle  er 
camp  meetin'  draps  on  his  cloze  ev'y  day  an'  two  on  Sun 
days,  an'  he  looks  jes'  like  he  comes  outen  a  ban'  box.  It'll 
be  like  draggin'  a  sack  er  salt  thu'  wet  san'  ef  you  take  the 
shine  outer  him." 

The  poet  laughed  a  little  weak  laugh.  "O,  I'm  not  on 
that  line,  Mr.  Vanderlyn.  I  wasn't  born  lucky  like  some  peo 
ple.  I  am  unfortunate.  No  good  woman  would  want  me 
for  a  husband,  and  I  should  never  think  of  marrying  a 
woman  I  really  loved." 

"How's  that,  Padgy?" 

"I  know  my  failings.  I  am  one  of  the  no-accounts.  And 
then  there's  the  liquor;  you  know  how  that  serves  me. 
Some  people  are  born  weak.  I  haven't  touched  a  drop  in  a 
week,  and  yet  I  may  wake  up  in  the  morning  with  a  desire 
for  drink  absolutely  uncontrollable.  It  was  the  way  with 
me  at  college,  and  that  is  why  I  was  expelled." 

"Damnation,  man ;"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn  savagely.  "Ef 
you  kin  let  up  on  licker  one  week,  youk'n  let  up  a  lifetime." 

"O,  it's  very  well  for  you  to  talk  that  way,  Van.  They 
all  say  so.  I  hear  it  wherever  I  go.  But  I  know  better.  I 
know  what  I  can  do,  and  I  know  what  I  can't  do.  You 
might  as  well  say  that  old  man  Cooper  could  have  con 
trolled  his  desire  for  food.  Don't  preach,  Van." 

"I  ain't  much  in  that  line,  Padgy,"  said  Vanderlyn ;  "but 
durn  me  ef  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you  stan'  at  your  full 
height." 

"O,  I'll  do  well  enough.    There's  this  consolation,  Van," 
he  continued  with  a  little  sigh:  "I  don't  hurt  anybody  but 
22 


338  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

myself.  If  I  could  be  made  to  believe  that  any  woman  on 
earth  loved  me,  I  should  be  miserable.  It  is  better  as  it  is." 

Then,  as  if  desirous  of  speaking  of  something  else,  Pad 
gett  said :  "What's  all  the  news,  Van  ?  They  tell  me  you've 
got  to  be  a  regular  doctor." 

"Yes,"  replied  Vanderlyn  in  an  earnest  tone,  "Fm  a  fust- 
rate  doctor.  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  take  you  in  han',  Padgy, 
an'  fetch  you  back  to  life." 

"You  are  a  good  one,  Van,"  he  said  a  little  sadly  and 
wistfully,  "and  you  could  do  it  if  anybody  could.  But  it 
can't  be  done.  Shortly  after  I  left  Athens  a  schoolmate 
asked  me  to  visit  him.  He  was  dead  before  I  got  the  letter. 
If  I  had  taken  him  at  his  word,  my  visit  would  have  been  a 
little  late.  I  have  fought  with  myself  for  years.  A  stronger 
man  would  have  conquered.  Something  was  lacking.  But 
how  about  'Cajy  Cooper  and  the  Ashfields?  They  told  me 
that  Jim  Ashfield  had  settled  among  us  again." 

"Well,  that's  the  funny  part,  blamed  ef  it  ain't,"  replied 
Vanderlyn.  "I  talked  to  him  once  in  the  dark,  but  I  wish 
I  may  be  shot  ef  I  ever  seed  'im  again,  an*  'Cindy  ain't  never 
laid  eyes  on  'im." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Van,  that  'Cindy  is  a  deep  one. 
You  have  heard  about  the  baby  business  ?" 

"Jedge  Walthall's  little  tin?" 

"Well,  that  girl  kept  the  baby  out  there  in  the  woods 
more'n  a  year,  and  nobody  knew  it.  The  boys  wanted  to 
send  her  along  with  the  lovely  brother  of  hers;  but  she 
cried  and  cried  and  said  she  didn't  know  the  baby  was 
stolen.  She  went  on  at  a  terrible  rate.  According  to  her 
story,  Jim  told  her  that  he  had  found  the  little  thing  in 
the  woods;  but  it  was  remembered  by  those  who  searched 
her  house  for  Jim  and  watched  it  afterwards  that  it  was  a 
month  or  more  before  'Cindy  could  be  found.  The  child 
was  so  changed  by  exposure  and  lack  of  proper  food  that 
its  own  mother  hardly  knew  it.  That  'Cindy  is  a  shrewd  one. 
If  she  hasn't  seen  Jim,  the  two  have  lost  their  cunning." 

"No,"  said  Vanderlyn  decisively,  "she  ain't  seen  'im.  I 
ast  her." 

Young  Padgett  laughed.  "Maybe  not,  Van.  It  isn't  for 
me  to  judge  even  'Cindy  Ashfield." 

The  village  poet  made  two  friends  that  night.    The  school- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  339 

master  had  regarded  him  as  an  utterly  dissipated  young 
blackguard,  and  Miss  Jane  had  always  alluded  to  him  as 
"that  drunken  vagabond  of  a  Padgett/'  They  were  both 
impressed,  and  the  schoolmaster  was  not  a  little  saddened, 
by  what  they  had  heard.  The  latter,  moved  by  some  sudden 
impulse,  arose,  passed  out  of  the  little  gate,  and  crossed  the 
street  to  where  Vanderlyn  and  Padgett  were  sitting.  "I 
have  appointed  myself  a  committee,"  he  said,  "to  come 
over  and  invite  you  gentlemen  to  sit  with  us  awhile.  Miss 
Jane  and  Miss  Nora  are  nodding  in  the  porch,  and  Jack 
is  fast  asleep,  and  I  am  in  need  of  company.  I  was 
dozing  myself  until  I  heard  Vanderlyn's  voice.  Won't  you 
come  over,  Mr.  Padgett?" 

"Me?"  inquired  the  young  man  in  a  half-amazed,  half- 
amusing  tone.  It  had  been  so  long  since  such  a  cordial  in 
vitation  had  been  extended  in  Rockville. 

"Certainly.  Why  not?"  heartily.  "Can't  you  be  socia 
ble?  Come." 

Tiny  Padgett  laughed.  "I  don't  think  I'm  quite  present 
able,  Mr.  Wornum."  But  he  went  all  the  same.  The  temp 
tation  to  be  near  Nora  and  hear  her  voice  was  even  more 
irresistible  than  his  periodical  thirst  for  liquor.  It  was  a 
memorable  evening  for  him.  Sitting  where  he  could  see 
the  lines  of  the  beautiful  face  and  listening  for  the  pleasant 
voice  to  break  in  the  conversation,  he  gave  himself  wholly 
up  to  the  spell  of  the  moment.  He  was  well  educated,  thor 
oughly  informed  upon  all  current  topics,  and  a  fluent  con 
versationalist.  But  upon  that  occasion  he  surpassed  him 
self.  Inspired  by  the  presence  of  the  woman  he  loved — yes, 
worshiped  from  afar — he  became  brilliant.  With  admirable 
tact  the  schoolmaster  drew  him  out  until  even  Padgett  was 
astonished  at  himself.  But  through  it  all  there  ran  an  under 
current  of  sadness.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  fair  young  girl 
on  the  other  side  always  asking:  "Would  you  live  a  new 
life  for  my  sake?"  And  he  was  always  replying:  "It  is  too 
late." 

XI 

Love's  Labor's  Lost 

"Miss  Kate!"  exclaimed  Miss  Becky  Griggs  one  after 
noon,  flinging  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  schoolmistress,  a 


340  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

blushing  heap  of  calico,  auburn  hair,  and  rosy  cheeks.  "Miss 
Kate,  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  think  a  good  many  things,  my  dear/' 

"O,  but  this !  I  mean  would  you  take  me  for  a  regular 
little  goose  ?  Mind  now,  a  regular  little  goose." 

The  schoolmistress  laughed.  She  was  not  much  older 
than  the  young  girl  who  sat  at  her  feet,  blushing  and  look 
ing  confused. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  take  you  for  a  very  small  goose,"  Miss 
Kate  replied,  looking  down  upon  the  very  plump  form  of 
her  pupil. 

"And  I  am  not,"  assented  Becky,  pouting  and  growing 
red.  "I'm  a  great  big  goose." 

"A  goose  that  is  either  big  or  little  or  both  to  suit  cir 
cumstances  is  a  very  accommodating  bird,  I'm  sure." 

"O  Miss  Kate,  you  are  teazing.  Why  can't  you  sym 
pathize  with  me?" 

"Upon  my  word,  you  don't  seem  to  need  sympathy,"  an 
swered  the  schoolmistress  with  a  very  bright  smile.  "What 
is  the  trouble,  my  dear?" 

"I'm  in  love,  Miss  Kate,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  half  laugh 
ing,  half  crying. 

"Is  that  all,  my  dear?"  asked  the  fair  Katherine  Under 
wood  gayly,  but  remembering  some  girlish  experience  of 
her  own,  nevertheless.  "That  is  easily  cured.  The  disease 
is  not  as  desperate  as  the  books  would  have  you  believe. 
It  is  like  the  measles,  troublesome,  but  harmless,  especially 
to  young  people.  What  you  need,  my  dear,  is  a  strong  cup 
of  ginger  tea  and  plenty  of  exercise.  I  have  been  attacked 
in  the  same  way  myself.  I  was  much  younger  than  you, 
though,"  she  continued,  observing  the  look  of  inquiry  on 
the  girl's  face,  "a  good  deal  younger.  The  poets  say  that 
first  love  is  the  most  lasting,  and  I  believe  them ;  for  I  have 
a  tender  spot  in  my  heart  for  my  first  lover,  although  I 
know  he  has  been  in  jail  for  whipping  his  wife.  The 
love  didn't  last,  but  the  romance  did,  and  I  don't  know 
that  I  am  any  the  worse  off  for  it.  A  cup  of  tea  will  cure 
you." 

"How  can  you  talk  so,  Miss  Kate?" 

"Experience,  my  dear.    You  will  learn  one  of  these  days 


Early  Literary  Efforts  341 

that  your  dainty  little  idol,  with  his  kids  and  polished  boots, 
is  not  so  lovable,  after  all." 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  said  the  girl;  "he  isn't  hand 
some,  and  he  isn't  young,  and,"  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
anger,  "I  don't  believe  he  is  good.  No,  I  don't.  I  believe 
he  is  a  humbug,  one  of  the  biggest  kind  of  humbugs." 

"Pray,  who  is  this  ugly  old  humbug?"  asked  the  school 
mistress. 

^  "I  won't  tell  you,  Miss  Kate ;  no,  not  if  I  was  on  the  rack. 
I'm  ashamed  of  it  every  time  I  think  about  it." 

"You  will  discover  in  time,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Under 
wood  seriously,  "that  true  love  is  never  ashamed." 

"O,  I  don't  mean  that,  Miss  Kate,"  exclaimed  this  way 
ward  girl,  bursting  into  tears.  "How  could  I?  He  is 
brave  and  noble  and  pure,  and  I  am  unworthy  to  speak  his 
name." 

"I  think,"  remarked  the  schoolmistress,  ignoring  this  pas 
sionate  outburst  and  looking  from  her  window  across  the 
green  fields,  "that  a  walk  would  do  us  good." 
^  And  so  the  two,  gathering  themselves  up  into  various 
little  beauknots  and  adjusting  themselves  with  ever  so  many 
hairpins,  sallied  forth  into  the  avenue  that  answered  the 
purposes  of  a  street.  It  was  a  queer  avenue,  too,  for  it  led 
in  one  direction  to  the  courthouse  square  in  Rockville  and  in 
the  other  to  a  wide-spreading  chestnut  grove,  and  toward  this 
the  two  young  women  made  their  way,  one  nervous  and 
discontented  and  the  other  cool  and  inquisitive.  As  they 
entered  the  grove  and  strolled  under  the  green  canopy  that 
shut  out  the  sky  overhead,  save  some  delicious  bits  of  blue 
that  gleamed  here  and  there  through  the  leaves,  a  sense  of 
rest  and  quiet  seemed  to  steal  over  the  younger  of  the  two. 
The  most  of  us,  I  fancy,  have  had  the  same  experience.  It 
seems  to  be  impossible  that  any  human  being  should  defile 
the  vast  solitudes  of  the  woods  by  entering  therein  bearing 
the  burthens,  the  passions,  and  the  vexations  of  everyday 
life.  Perhaps  Katherine  Underwood  was  more  troubled  at 
heart  than  her  love-smit  pupil.  She  was  a  quiet  woman, 
little  given  to  confessing  her  troubles  even  to  herself,  and 
it  was  only  upon  rare  occasions  that  her  serenity  was  dis 
turbed.  But  she  must  have  experienced  some  sort  of  relief 


342  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

in  the  cool  shade  of  the  chestnuts,  for  she  lifted  her  hands 
in  a  quick  upward  gesture  and  exclaimed:  "Well,  this  is 
comforting !" 

"It  is  better  than  staying  in  the  house  and  discussing 
such  a  detestable  subject  as  men,"  responded  Becky  Griggs. 

"A  little  fresh  air,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  "is  a  won 
derful  thing.  It  blows  the  mental  cobwebs  utterly  away, 
and  we  perceive  that  not  a  few  of  our  giants  are  dwarfs." 

"What  good  does  that  do?"  asked  the  younger  woman 
petulantly.  "We  go  back,  gather  up  the  cobwebs,  and,  lo 
and  behold,  there  we  have  our  giants  again." 

"Well,  it  is  a  relief,  at  any  rate,"  replied  the  other  dryly. 

"No,"  said  Becky,  "it  wouldn't  be  any  relief  to  me.  All 
my  giants  are  real  giants,  thank  goodness !  And  if  they 
weren't,  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  them  parading  as  dwarfs." 

"It  will  be  the  end  of  it  sooner  or  later,  my  dear.  Time 
turns  the  telescope  as  well  as  the  hourglass.  What  ap 
pears  close  at  hand  to-day  will  seem  to  be  far  enough  off 
when  you  are  a  little  older.  In  a  very  few  years  you  will  be 
looking  through  the  big  end  of  the  telescope.  But  all  the 
same  I  should  like  to  know  the  name  of  the  young  man 
who  has  stolen  your  affections." 

"I  was  about  to  tell  you  once  to-day,  Miss  Kate,"  said  the 
girl,  "but  I'm  glad  I  didn't.  I  know  how  differently  you 
would  have  lifted  your  eyes,  and  then  you  would  have 
asked  me  about  my  music  lesson." 

The  schoolmistress  laughed  merrily.  "Well,  my  dear,  I 
know  how  these  things  are.  You  are  young.  If  age  was 
not  attended  by  experience,  we  should  have  no  wisdom." 

"You  are  not  old  enough  to  be  my  grandmother,  Miss 
Kate,"  remarked  the  girl. 

"I  am  twenty-five,  and  you  are  sixteen,"  said  the  school 
mistress.  "Nine  years  may  represent  a  great  deal  or  very 
little,  according  to  circumstances.  In  my  case  they  repre 
sent  a  great  deal." 

As  she  spoke  the  shadow  of  a  man  fell  across  the  path 
way,  and  the  next  moment  a  strong,  hearty  voice  had  broken 
in  upon  the  rippling  treble  of  the  conversation. 

"Good  evenin',  ladies.  We're  havin'  mighty  pleasant 
weather  now." 

Becky  Griggs  started  and  blushed  violently.     It  was  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  343 

voice  that  had  haunted  her  dreams,  and  she  knew  it  be 
longed  to  the  man  who  appeared  to  her  to  be  something 
more  than  a  mere  hero.  The  schoolmistress  was  only 
slightly  disconcerted,  but  her  eyes  drooped  as  they  had 
drooped  once  before. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said.  "We  were 
just  taking  a  little  walk  after  school  hours,  Miss  Griggs 
and  I." 

."I  seen  you  all  a-sa'nterin'  long,"  he  replied  placidly, 
"an'  I  jes'  thought  I'd  stop  an*  see  how  you  wuz  a-gittin' 
on/' 

"O,  famously,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  after  the  ride  we  had  with 
you.  I  am  sure  we  can  never  get  done  thanking  you  for 
your  services  that  day.  But  for  you  I  fear  we  should  not 
be  walking  here." 

"Yes'm,  you  would ;  yes'm,  indeed !  Them  horses  wuz 
blowed.  They  couldn't  'a*  run  a  half  mile  furder.  They 
wuz  stove  up." 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  stopped  to  consider  all  these 
things?"  inquired  the  schoolmistress  so  coolly  that  Becky 
Griggs,  forgetting  her  own  embarrassment,  looked  at  her 
in  astonishment. 

"I  sorter  disremember  now,"  he  replied;  "but  I  reckon 
I  kinder  figgered  things  up  in  my  mind.  Folks  don't  take 
no  chances  when  it  comes  down  to  gittin'  mangled;  least 
ways  I  don't." 

Looking  up,  the  schoolmistress  imagined  she  caught  a 
quizzical  expression  in  the  blue  eyes  that  gazed  down  at  her 
with  such  calm  serenity ;  but  she  was  not  sure,  and  she  gave 
the  tall  man  by  her  side  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  It  was 
clearly  impossible,  she  argued  to  herself,  that  one  so  rough 
should  be  thoughtful  enough  to  be  quizzical,  though  she 
wondered  afterwards,  as  women  will,  why  she  connected 
thoughtfulness  with  the  matter,  and  then  she  informed  her 
self  with  some  degree  of  asperity  that  she  was  a  fool  for 
remembering  anything  about  Vanderlyn  at  all. 

"We  intended  to  write  you  a  note  of  thanks,"  she  said, 
speaking  for  Becky  and  herself. 

"Me?"  he  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  of  course,  Mr.  Vanderlyn." 

"What  would  you  'a'  thanked  me  fer,  ladies?"    His  face 


344  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

expressed  the  surprise  he  felt,  but  the  tone  of  his  voice 
showed  that  he  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  the  schoolmistress 
was  ridiculing  him. 

"Why,  because — upon  my  word,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  I  don't 
understand  you !  As  a  general  thing,  when  men  talk  like 
you  women  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  fishing  for 
a  compliment." 

"But  he  isn't/'  exclaimed  Becky  enthusiastically.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  ventured  to  speak,  and  when  the 
schoolmistress  turned  to  look  at  her  she  was  blushing  vio 
lently.  The  calm  blue  eyes  of  Vanderlyn  saw  nothing  in 
the  blush  save  the  embarrassment  of  a  schoolgirl.  Kath- 
erine  Underwood  saw  therein  the  secret  that  Becky  Griggs 
fain  would  hide,  and,  seeing  it,  she  felt  a  little  shock  of 
surprise  and  displeasure.  Whether  the  girl  saw  that  her 
secret  was  discovered  and  thereupon  became  less  confiden 
tial  in  her  bearing,  or  whether  the  schoolmistress  felt  a 
contempt  for  a  passion  weak  enough  to  proclaim  itself,  it 
is  impossible  to  say ;  but  from  that  moment  the  two  friends 
were  less  cordial  to  each  other,  until  finally  the  coolness 
between  them  came  to  be  the  subject  of  comment. 

Poor  Becky !  The  walk  that  afternoon  under  the  spread 
ing  chestnut  trees,  with  the  yellow  sunlight  slipping  serene 
ly  through  the  leaves  and  breaking  into  golden  waves  upon 
the  path  below  and  with  her  hero  at  her  side  and  his  voice 
sounding  in  her  ears,  was  to  her  a  precious  memory  to  the 
last.  The  romance  of  youth  threw  its  enchantment  around 
her,  and  love's  sweet  discontent  caught  the  fleeting  hour 
and  fashioned  it  into  a  memorial.  The  orioles  flashed 
through  the  green  leaves  like  firebrands  flung  from  unseen 
hands,  the  dusky  swallows  swept  tremulously  through  the 
blue  overhead,  and  a  partridge  in  the  underbrush  called  to 
her  wayward  mate.  All  this  the  girl  remembered  to  her 
dying  day,  for  within  a  year  the  oblivion  that  awaits  us 
all  had  overtaken  her.  Young,  beautiful,  and  pure-hearted, 
she  passed  from  the  world  murmuring  the  name  of  Van 
derlyn  to  those  who  knew  it  not.  Thus  she  passed  from 
the  world,  and  thus  she  passes  from  this  chronicle. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  345 

XII 

Nora's  First  Love 

One  day  Miss  Jane  Ferryman  went  to  Mr.  William  Wor- 
num  with  a  serious  face.  He  knew  she  was  disturbed  by 
something  out  of  the  ordinary  line  of  daily  incidents,  but 
he  kept  the  knowledge  to  himself. 

"I  ain't  been  so  flurried/'  she  began,  "sence  Ferraby  got 
hooked  by  the  brindle  cow.  It's  nothing  but  worriment  in 
this  world,  nohow.  One  minnit  we're  soun'  asleep,  an*  the 
nex'  minnit  a  harrycane  comes  'long  an'  lif's  the  roof  off. 
People  that  tries  to  git  'long  peaceable  don't  have  nothin' 
but  botheration  from  day's  eend  to  eend.  I  ain't  no  sooner 
got  Ben  outen  the  calaboose,  which,  if  I  do  say  it,  he  wuz 
put  in  thar  fer  spite,  an*  I'll  tell  old  Baglcy  so  hisself,  than 
here  comes  this  nice  friend  er  yottrn,  this  nice  Mr.  Em'ry 
Reed,  to  worry  me." 

"What  has  Emory  done  now,  Miss  Jane?" 
"You   wouldn't   believe   it,    William   Wornum;   but   las' 
night  I  wuz  a-settin'  out  thar  in  the  porch,  an'  what  should 
I  hear  but  that  Em'ry  Reed  makin'  love  to  Nora  in  the  par 
lor  jest  as  sassy  as  a  jay  bird." 

The  schoolmaster  rose  from  his  seat,  walked  up  and  down 
once,  and  then  stood  looking  out  the  window  It  seemed 
strange  that  little  things  should  attract  his  attention  but  he 
found  himself  interested  in  the  evolutions  of  a  flock  of  small 
birds.  They  flew  about  over  the  fields  and  trees,  now  hio-h 
in  the  air,  now  close  to  the  ground,  always  preparing  to 
alight  and  yet  never  alighting,  until  finally  they  lost  them- 
*e  vf.s  m  £e  blue  of  the  sky.  "It  is  better  that  they  should  " 
William  Wornum  thought.  "If  they  could  find  no  comfort 
here,  it  is  better  they  should  fly  away,  each  with  its  mate  " 

Miss  Jane  was  too  busy  with  her  thoughts  to  pay  much 
attention  to  the  schoolmaster.  "You  ou^hter  heern  'im  " 
she  continued.  "He  sot  up  thar  on  the  sofy  and  talked  like 
ne^had  waggin  grease  on  his  tongue." 

"What  did  Miss  Nora  say/'  the  schoolmaster  inquired 
returning  to  his  chair. 

«.  ii'9'  £h  j  S0t  Up  like  any  f°o1  £al  an'  Iissened  an'  snickered 

had  a  great  notion  to  jump  in  thar  'mong-  'em  an' 

smack  her  jaw.     I  thought  I'd  come  an'  ast  you  what  it's 


346  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harm 

better  to  do.  It's  my  own  jedgment  that  I  oughter  give  that 
young  feller  his  walkin'  papers.  I'm  mighty  sorry  you  ever 
brung  him  here,  William  Wornum,  mighty  sorry.  It's  allers 
de  way." 

"I  don't  see  there  is  much  harm  done/'  said  the  school 
master.  "You  know  that  Nora's  experience  must  be  that  of 
other  girls,  and  they  all  have  love  made  to  them,  more  or 
less." 

"Shucks!  Nobody  never  come  hangin'  roun'  me  a-whin- 
in'  an*  a-splutterin'  'bout  love.  They  had  better  sense. 
Fools  ez  they  is,  men  folks  know  who  to  worry." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Jane,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "you 
have  no  occasion  to  feel  worried  because  Emory  Reed  is 
making  love  to  Nora.  He  is  a  man,"  continued  the  school 
master,  remembering  the  bright,  handsome  face  and  frank, 
winning  manners  of  the  young  lawyer,  "that  any  woman 
might  be  proud  to  win." 

"I  don't  like  your  nice  men,"  said  Miss  Jane  emphatically. 
"I've  seen  some  mighty  game  roosters  trip  theirselves  up 
with  their  wing.  What  must  I  do,  William  Wornum  ?" 

"I  don't  see  that  you  can  do  anything,  Miss  Jane,  save  to 
let  matters  take  their  own  course."  His  tone  was  so  cold 
and  indifferent  and  his  manner  so  careless  that  Miss  Jane 
was  at  first  surprised  and  then  provoked. 

"Let  what  matters  take  their  course?"  she  asked  sharply. 
"Ef  you  take  me  for  a  nat'l  fool,  William  Wornum,  I'd 
thank  you  to  tell  me  right  out  in  plain  Inglish." 

"You  asked  me  for  my  advice,  Miss  Jane.  I  have  given 
it  to  you.  I  don't  see  that  you  can  better  matters  by  offend 
ing  young  Reed  or  fretting  Nora.  If  his  attentions  are 
agreeable  to  her,  it  would  hardly  be  becoming  in  you  to 
trouble  yourself.  Reed  is  no  ordinary  man.  If  I  had  a 
sister  or  a  daughter,"  the  schoolmaster  continued,  still 
speaking  coldly,  "I  should  ask  no  happier  destiny  for  her 
than  that  she  become  the  wife  of  such  a  man  as  Emory 
Reed." 

"O,  yes!  You  men  are  mighty  smart.  I  ain't  doubtin' 
but  what  Em'ry  Reed's  the  nicest  man  in  Ameriky,  but 
I'd  ruther  see  it'n  to  hear  tell  about  it.  What  do  I  keer  fer 
his  niceness  an'  his  goodness?  I  ain't  gwineter  have  'im 


Early  Literary  Efforts  347 

hangin'  'roun'  crammin'  Nora's  years  fuller  his  nonsense. 
That's  what  I  ain't  gwineter  have." 

"Well,  Miss  Jane,"  replied  the  schoolmaster  in  a  gentler 
tone,  "you  asked  my  advice,  and  I  have  given  it.  In  your 
place  I  should  say  nothing  to  Nora  and  nothing  to  Emory 
Reed.  You  are  fortified  in  the  fact  that  she  is  blessed  with 
common  sense  and  that  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"Well,  William  Wornum,  ef  it's  gotter  be  a  courtin' 
match,  I'll  sen'  word  to  Tiny  Padgett,  an*  we'll  have  a 
reg'lar  sociable.  He  don't  w'ar  no  slick  hats,  and  he  don't 
put  no  cinnamon  draps  on  his  han'kercher ;  but  I  lav  he's 
good  as  your  Em'ry  Reed  any  day,  an'  more  than  that,  he 
won't  be  splittin'  people's  years  a-howlin'  an'  a-singin'  roun' 
the  house." 

But  Miss  Jane  did  not  carry  out  her  threat.  True,  she 
was  more  cordial  to  poor  Padgett  and  less  disposed  there 
after  to  criticize  his  manifold  weaknesses,  but  neither  by 
word  nor  sign  did  she  give  Emory  Reed  to  understand  that 
she  had  overheard  his  little  outburst  of  sentiment  or  that 
she  disapproved  of  his  frequent  visits. 

The  greatest  change  of  all  came  over  William  Wornum. 
Only  at  rare  intervals  did  he  join  the  little  group  that 
usually  assembled  in  the  little  porch  or  in  the  sitting  room. 
He  seemed  absorbed  in  his  books.  After  school  hours  and 
on  Sundays  he  took  long  walks,  accompanied  always  by 
Jack  and  sometimes  by  Vanderlyn.  He  lost  all  interest  in 
everything — his  negroes,  his  school,  and  his  studies — and 
took  pains  to  avoid  his  friends  whenever  courtesy  would 
permit  him  to  do  so. 

"Youer  losin'  ground  with  the  gals,  Profesh,"  remarked 
Mr.  Bagley  one  day,  "an'  youer  losin'  your  health.  You 
look  like  you  bin  livin'  in  a  holler  tree,  dad  blamed  if  you 
don't." 

And,  in  truth,  the  schoolmaster  was  looking  rather  worst 
ed.  He  had  fought  a  terrible  fight  with  himself  and  had  con 
quered.  For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  up  and  down  the 
streets  of  Rockville  and  through  the  woods  endeavoring  to 
bring  himself  to  that  point  where  he  might  contemplate 
with  perfect  equanimity  the  contingency  that  would  make 
Nora  Ferryman  the  wife  of  Emory  Reed.  It  was  a  hard 
struggle,  but  he  conquered.  For  months  he  had  been 


34$  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

vaguely  aware  that  the  blind  girl  was  very  dear  to  him,  but 
it  was  not  until  Miss  Jane's  announcement  of  Emory  Reed's 
intentions  that  the  schoolmaster  became  fully  aware  of  the 
passionate  strength  and  extent  of  his  feelings.  It  was  a 
terrible  blow  to  him,  and  it  came  upon  him  suddenly.  He 
was  totally  unprepared  for  it,  but  he  managed  to  bear  him 
self  with  tolerable  composure;  and  Miss  Jane,  unsuspecting 
soul,  never  dreamed  of  the  torture  that  she  was  inflicting 
when  she  asked  his  advice  with  respect  to  Emory  Reed. 
The  schoolmaster  resolved  then  and  there  to  conquer  his 
passion,  and  to  all  outward  appearance  he  did.  His  morose- 
ness  gradually  left  him,  and  after  a  time  he  fell  into  his  old 
habits.  He  was  sorely  tried,  however.  One  afternoon,  re 
turning  from  his  academy,  he  found  Nora  in  the  parlor 
alone.  They  talked  on  commonplace  topics  for  a  little 
while,  until  finally,  after  a  pause,  she  said :  "You  have  been 
troubled  of  late,  Mr.  Wornum." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  somewhat  troubled.  "Do  you  never 
have  any  troubles,  Miss  Nora?" 

"O  sometimes,"  with  a  little  embarrassed  laugh.  "I  have 
had  a  good  many  recently.  I  knew  you  were  troubled  by 
the  tone  of  your  voice." 

"I  suppose  I  betrayed  myself  even  when  I  asked  for  more 
sugar  for  my  tea." 

"Now,  you  are  laughing  at  me.  But  it  is  true,  and  I 
know  you  are  never  troubled  by  little  things." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  presently  she  continued :  "Were 
you  ever  in  love,  Mr.  Wornum?" 

He  winced  a  little  and  looked  curiously  at  the  fair  face 
before  him.  But  the  answer  came  without  hesitation. 
"Once,  a  long  time  ago,"  he  replied  to  her  question  as  frank 
ly  as  though  a  little  child  had  asked  it. 

"Was  it  very  long  ago?" 

"It  seems  so  to  me." 

"And  you  never  married?" 

"It  appears  not,"  he  answered,  laughing  a  little. 

"Did  the  lady  die  ?"  asked  the  girl  in  a  low  tone. 

"No.  She  lived  on  and  lived  happily.  She  was  very 
young,  too  young  to  be  told  that  she  was  beloved  by  an 
uncouth  old  man  like  me." 

"And  she  never  knew  it?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  349 

"I  am  happy  in  the  belief  that  she  never  did." 

"I  think  she  ought  to  have  known,"  said  the  girl  with  a 
sigh. 

"Why?"  he  asked  a  little  bitterly.  "If  a  true  woman,  the 
hopelessness  of  the  story  would  have  grieved  her;  if  other 
wise,  she  would  merely  have  wounded  by  her  flippancy  the 
man  who  loved  her.  It  is  far  better  as  it  is.  Besides" — 

There  was  a  pause.  He  feared  to  go  on.  Momentary 
silence  fell  upon  the  two.  The  girl  seemed  to  be  listening 
to  sounds  that  no  one  but  herself  could  hear.  Her  face  was 
pale,  but  O  how  beautiful!  The  schoolmaster  watched  her 
closely. 

"Well,  Mr.  Wornum/'  she  said  presently,  "you  haven't 
finished." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "There  is  nothing  more  to  be  told. 
A  friend  of  mine  loved  this  woman." 

"And  you  gave  way  to  this  friend?  I  dare  say,"  said 
the  girl  a  little  scornfully,  "that  the  lady  appreciated  such 
generosity." 

He  regarded  her  curiously.  Was  this  the  gentle  Nora  of 
old? 

"I  dare  say  she  will  one  of  these  days/'  he  answered. 
"If  you  call  it  generosity,  I  was  generous  indeed.  I  gave 
her  a  heart  of  gold,  a  man  full  of  pure  and  noble  impulses." 

"And  you  are  satisfied?" 

"More  than  satisfied,"  he  answered.  "I  feel  the  con 
sciousness  of  having  performed  a  disagreeable  duty,  of  hav 
ing  made  a  little  sacrifice  of  self,  if  you  will." 

"Such  love  as  that  is  a  conceit,"  she  answered. 

"As  you  will,"  he  replied ;  but  her  words  and  her  tone  cut 
him  to  the  quick.  "It  is  a  consolation  to  know  that  if  it  is 
a  conceit  it  has  troubled  no  one  but  myself." 

"Perhaps  the  lady  loved  you,"  the  girl  persisted. 

"Impossible!  We  were  friends.  If  she  thought  of  me 
at  all,  it  was  as  a  sister  might  think  of  a  brother.  My 
friend  who  loved  her  was  far  worthier." 

"And  you  are  not  unhappy?" 

"Far  from  it.  My  duty  lay  in  the  direction  of  unhappi- 
ness  for  a  time,  but  that  time  has  passed.  If  I  have  been 
the  means  of  bringing  happiness  to  her,  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

"But  if  you  have  not?" 


350  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Well,  I  have  done  the  best  I  could.    I  could  do  no  more/' 

"You  might  have  done  less." 

"Upon  my  word,  Miss  Nora,"  said"  the  schoolmaster, 
laughing  and  attempting  to  give  a  lighter  turn  to  the  con 
versation,  "I  shall  have  to  tell  Emory  that  you  are  growing 
uncommonly  wise  of  late." 

"Why  tell  Mr.  Reed  ?"  the  girl  asked,  blushing  a  little. 

"O,  he  would  be  glad  to  know.  He  is  a  great  admirer  of 
yours." 

"And  a  great  friend  of  yours?" 

"Undoubtedly.  A  very  great  friend.  If  there  is  a  true- 
hearted  man  on  earth,  it  is  Emory  Reed." 

"Is  he  as  worthy  as  the  friend  for  whom  you  made  such 
an  unnecessary  sacrifice?"  asked  Nora. 

"Every  whit.  He  is  worthy  of  all  the  happiness  that  fate 
is  capable  of  bestowing  upon  him.  He  is  worthy  of  any 
woman." 

Thereupon  the  conversation  lagged  for  a  few  moments. 
Nora  was  evidently  not  prepared  to  argue  the  question  of 
young  Reed's  merits.  Finally  she  said:  "I  am  afraid  the 
lady  you  loved  is  unhappy." 

"Are  you  unhappy  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  know  ?" 

"Because  she  is  no  more  unhappy  than  you  are.  She  is 
young,  and  unhappiness  never  comes  to  the  young." 

"It  might,"  she  replied. 

"But  it  rarely  does,"  he  persisted. 

"You  cannot  tell,"  she  said ;  "you  do  not  know." 

XIII 

Sweet  Shrubs  and  Flowers 

One  afternoon,  some  time  after  Vanderlyn  had  met  Kate 
Underwood  and  her  pupil  in  the  wood,  he  received  a  dainty 
little  note,  the  purport  of  which  was  as  follows : 

"Dear  Mr.  Vanderlyn:  Since  I  met  you  the  other  day  I 
have  come  to  be  more  and  more  of  the  opinion  that  it  is 
my  duty  to  express  to  you  the  gratitude  I  feel  for  your  cour 
age  in  saving  me  and  some  of  my  friends  from  death  some 
time  ago.  It  may  appear  indelicate  at  this  late  day  for  me 
to  express  my  thanks  in  this  shape;  but  when  I  remember 


Early  Literary  Efforts  351 

how  grateful  to  you  my  mother  will  be  and  how,  kneeling 
by  her  hearthstone  in  New  England,  her  prayers  will  as 
cend  to  heaven  in  your  behalf,  I  cannot  refrain  from  send 
ing  to  you  this  poor  acknowledgment  of  my  gratitude.  I 
know  how  inadequate  such  an  expression  must  seem  to  you, 
but  it  is  not  impossible  that  some  day,  when  you  have  noth 
ing  better  to  think  of,  you  may  remember  with  a  feeling 
not  altogether  unpleasant  that  you  were  the  means  of  saving 
the  life  of  a  woman  far  away  from  home  and  friends  and 
that  she  was  disposed  to  be  grateful. 

"Your  friend,  KATHERINE  UNDERWOOD" 

The  reception  of  this  note  was  a  momentous  event  in 
Vanderlyn's  life.  It  was  feminine  from  first  to  last.  It  was 
written  upon  an  exceedingly  small  sheet  of  paper,  and  just 
the  faintest  shadow  of  perfume  seemed  to  cling  to  it.  The 
handwriting  was  almost  as  delicate  as  the  perfume,  but 
somehow  or  other  Vanderlyn  managed  to  make  it  out,  and 
then  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  nothing  more  than  his  duty 
to  thank  heaven  that  he  had  been  the  means  of  saving  this 
woman's  life.  He  reread  the  note  time  and  again ;  he  even 
held  it  up  to  the  light  to  the  wonderful  exactness  with 
which  the  lines  had  been  followed,  and  each  time  the  faint 
perfume,  rising,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  an  incense,  scattered 
itself  mysteriously  through  the  air,  an  essence  more  subtile 
and  overpowering  to  this  great,  rough  man  than  anything 
that  had  come  to  him.  He  did  not  stop  to  consider  whether 
it  was  lavender,  attar  of  roses,  musk,  or  sandal  wood,  but 
he  recognized  its  potency.  It  appeared — this  faint  odor — 
to  come  to  him  as  an  appeal,  a  mysterious  appeal  which  he 
neither  strove  nor  hoped  to  understand.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  heard  the  plaintive  cry  of  a  little  child  in  the  darkness 
and  had  searched  for  it  only  to  find  it  safe  in  its  mother's 
arms.  It  awoke  impulses  in  his  soul  that  he  had  flattered 
himself  were  beyond  resurrection ;  it  stirred  into  life  the 
old  romantic  fancies  that  had  made  him  a  wanderer  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  known  it  was  the  custom  of  the  fair 
Katherine  to  submit  her  note  paper  to  a  bath  of  cheap 
cologne  water,  the  odor  that  distracted  him  would  have 
proved  less  potent ;  but  it  was  not  given  him  to  know,  and 


352  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

the  subtile  perfume  continued  to  exercise  a  strong  influence 
over  him.  He  did  not  show  the  note  to  the  schoolmaster, 
nor  did  he  take  Jack  into  his  confidence.  He  did  not  even 
reply  to  it ;  but  in  the  summer  mornings  thereafter  the  fair 
Katharine,  going  to  her  duties,  found  her  schoolroom  odor 
ous  with  all  manner  of  wild  flowers.  The  sweet  shrub  shed 
its  perfume  from  her  desk,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  honey 
suckle  and  the  wild  jasmine  floated  through  the  room. 
Vaguely  guessing  to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  these  little 
offerings,  Miss  Underwood,  nevertheless,  closely  catechized 
her  pupils  about  the  flowers,  and  even  blushed  when  one  of 
them,  a  pale,  puny  little  thing,  replied  in  a  loudly  shrill 
voice  that  "the  man  what  cotched  the  run'way  hosses'd 
brung  'em." 

It  came  to  pass  that  Vanderlyn,  idling  through  the  long 
days,  divided  his  time  between  wandering  through  the  woods 
and  attending  the  two  schools  in  the  capacity  of  privileged 
visitor.  At  William  Wornum's  academy  he  played  boister 
ously  with  the  boys,  and  at  Miss  Underwood's  he  contented 
himself  with  curiously  watching  the  progress  of  the  young 
ladies,  who  soon  came  to  regard  his  presence  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  never  failed  to  renew  the  floral  offering  he 
had  laid  upon  the  fair  Katherine's  desk.  Sometimes  it  was 
only  a  wild  rose,  sometimes  a  bunch  of  dogwood  blossoms ; 
but  whatever  it  was,  it  was  always  there.  At  first  the 
schoolmistress  was  indifferent  to  these  little  offerings  and 
(by  way  of  experiment,  as  she  afterwards  confessed)  al 
lowed  them  to  lie  untouched  and  unnoticed  where  they  had 
been  placed;  but  this  seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon  the 
giver.  Fresh  offerings  took  the  place  of  the  old  ones  every 
morning,  and  Miss  Underwood,  with  feminine  inconsistency, 
began  to  fear  that  Vanderlyn's  flowers  were  laid  upon  her 
desk  more  for  his  own  gratification  than  hers ;  and  if  her 
conjecture  was  not  correct,  she  never  found  it  out  from  the 
stalwart  man  who  strayed  to  her  school  in  the  afternoon 
and  who  seemed  to  be  as  much  interested  in  the  sports  of 
the  little  girls  as  in  their  recitations.  Whereupon  this  prac 
tical  woman  resorted  to  trickery.  She  took  to  wearing 
Vanderlyn's  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  upon  one  occasion  she 
pinned  a  little  cluster  of  heartsease  against  her  throat,  and 
a  very  perfect  throat  it  was. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  353 

She  was  not  sure  that  Vanderlyn  had  observed  this  pro 
ceeding,  which  was  intended  to  be  a  mark  of  special  favor ; 
but  it  happened  that  he  remained  until  after  school  hours, 
and  the  two  walked  together  to  the  tavern  where  Miss  Un 
derwood  boarded. 

"You  perceive,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said,  smiling  bright 
ly,  "that  your  flowers  are  not  wasted.'* 

He  laughed.  "I  dunno'm  ef  'tain't  a  waste  fer  folks  to 
pull  'em ;  but  they're  growin'  wile  roun'  here,  an'  ef  I  didn't 
fetch  'em  in  the  cattle'd  trample  on  'em  an'  the  sun'd  wilt 
'em/' 

The  fair  Katherine  resented  this  sort  of  philosophy. 

"I  am  to  suppose,  then,"  she  said  somewhat  sarcastically, 
"that  you  pluck  them  by  the  wagonload  and,  in  order  to 
prevent  the  cows  from  treading  upon  them,  bring  them  in 
and  parcel  them  out  among  your  friends.  Mr.  Wornum,  no 
doubt,  gets  by  far  the  largest  share." 

"No'm,  'tain't  like  that ;  but  wimmen  don't  look  right  'less 
they've  gotter  letter  flowers  lyin'  roun'.  That  schoolhouse 
er  yourn  'ud  look  monst'ous  lonesome  'less  it  had  flowers 
showin'  up  somewheres.  It's  funny,"  he  continued,  "but 
one  little  bloom'll  put  you  in  mind  er  all  out  er  doors. 
Ef  I  had  to  be  shet  up  day  in  an'  day  out,  I'd  take  'n'  have 
flowers  strowed  all  roun',  an'  ef  I  could  ketch  a  bird  I'd 
fasten  him  in  jest  to  learn  'im  what  endyoance  folks  has  to 
have.  It's  sorter  clippin'  roun'  the  edges  when  it  comes  to 
shettin'  us  up." 

Evidently  Vanderlyn  failed  to  appreciate  the  drift  of 
Miss  Underwood's  remarks,  and  she  was  half  inclined  to 
believe  that  he  was  stupid. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "don't  you  think  your  flowers  look  bet 
ter  here,"  pointing  to  her  throat  and  blushing  a  little,  "than 
if  they  were  lying  upon  my  desk?" 

"O,  a  long  ways !"  he  replied.  "It  helps  the  flowers,  but 
it  don't  help  you.  Pictures  ain't  made  to  set  off  frames." 

It  was  a  delicate  compliment  clumsily  expressed,  but  she 
appreciated  it  none  the  less  on  that  account.  It  gave  her  a 
clearer  view  of  the  man,  and  she  came  to  perceive  how 
grand  a  quality  the  lack  of  egotism  may  become  in  simple, 
brave  natures.  She  saw  for  the  first  time  how  attractive 
the  utter  unconsciousness  of  self  may  be,  and  Vanderlyn 
23 


354  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

at  once  became  an  object  of  interest.  In  her  own  way  this 
Northern  woman  was  a  student  of  human  nature ;  and  al 
though  she  was  gifted  with  more  than  ordinary  acuteness, 
she  was  puzzled  to  account  for  some  of  the  characteristics 
of  this  man.  He  was  so  thoroughly  human  that  he  baffled 
her  at  every  turn. 

"I  have  seen  pictures  unworthy  of  their  frames,"  she  said 
after  awhile. 

"Pictures !"  he  exclaimed,  stopping  in  the  street  and  look 
ing  at  her  in  surprise.  His  manner  of  emphasizing  the  word 
was  at  once  a  protest  and  a  declaration.  Looking  quickly 
at  him,  Miss  Underwood  thought  she  had  made  a  discovery. 
His  entire  face,  it  seemed  to  her,  had  changed;  but  the 
change  was  as  sudden  and  as  evanescent  as  a  shadow  pass 
ing  over  the  grass,  and  it  left  her  more  puzzled  than  before. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "people  called  them  pictures,  and 
how  are  we  to  judge?  We  know  a  good  picture  from  a 
bad  one ;  but  who  is  to  tell  us  what  is  a  picture  and  what  is 
not  ?" 

He  laughed  a  little.  "Nobody,  I  reckon.  We're  obleeged 
to  come  down  to  guessin',  an*  when  we  git  to  guessin'  we're 
on  our  own  groun'." 

This  was  so  different  from  what  she  expected  that  she 
looked  at  him  again;  but  if  she  sought  a  revelation  in  his 
face,  she  failed  to  find  it. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you,  Mr.  Vanderlyn?" 
she  asked  presently. 

"Yes'm,"  he  said.  His  reply  was  so  simple  that  she  rather 
faltered. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  you  are  masquerading." 

"Doin'  which?" 

"Masquerading,  playing  a  part  for  a  purpose.  You 
needn't  pretend  to  misunderstand  me." 

He  regarded  her  gravely,  wishing  in  his  soul  that  cir 
cumstances  might  permit  him  to  walk  by  her  side  under  the 
clustering  china  trees  and  tell  her  of  the  struggle  he  had 
had  with  the  shadow  of  his  former  self  in  the  woods  that 
surrounded  old  'Cajy  Cooper's  cabin.  If  he  could  only  lay 
before  her  the  problem  that  vexed  and  worried  him  day  and 
night,  he  thought  it  would  be  a  great  relief ;  but  he  shrank 
from  it.  He  had  convinced  himself  that  the  time  had  not 


Early  Literary  Efforts  355 

come.     Had  he  betrayed  himself  to  this  sharp-eyed,  keen 
witted  woman?    He  thought  not. 

"I'm  a  sorter  play  actor,  then,  I  reckon,"  he  responded 
placidly.  "One  er  them  fellers  what  goes  a-trollipin'  roun' 
makin'  out  he's  in  love  when  he  ain't." 

"O,  not  that,  Mr.  Vanderlyn.  I've  never  heard  of  your 
trolloping  around,  as  you  call  it." 

"You  ain't  never  heered  much  er  me,  then,"  he  com 
mented. 

"And  I  have  never  heard  of  your  pretending  to  be  in  love. 
You  confuse  me  with  some  one  else." 

"And  you  are  mixin'  me  up  with  some  other  feller.  You'll 
know  ez  quick  ez  the  nex'  one  'bout  my  playin'  double." 

"I  dare  say  I  will,"  said  Miss  Underwood  dryly.  "But  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  that  I  appreciate  your 
kindness  in  bringing  me  flowers." 

"O,  it  ain't  no  trouble,"  he  replied.  "I  find  'em  growin* 
all  over  the  woods.  They  come  right  to  my  han'.  But 
sweet  s'ubs  is  a-gittin'  kinder  skeerce.  The  niggers  is  a-pull- 
in'  'em,  an'  they  are  droppin'  off  the  bushes.  It's  the  last  er 
pea  time  with  sweet  s'ubs,  an'  you  gotter  go  a  mighty  fur 
ways  if  you  git  enny." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Miss  Underwood,  "I  found  quite  a 
supply  on  my  desk  this  morning.  I  have  them  here  now  in 
my  handkerchief." 

Just  then  the  two,  sauntering  along  the  wide  street,  passed 
Mrs.  Bagley  and  Mrs.  Padgett. 

"Well,  I  declare  to  gracious,  Prue !"  exclaimed  the  latter. 
"Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that  ?  Don't  that  beat  your 
time?  I  allers  said  that  Yankee  'oman  'ud  be  up  to  some 
devilment  before  she  quit,  and  now  she's  a-settin'  her  cap 
for  that  Dan  Vanderlyn.  I  never  seed  sich  imperdence." 

"But  she  ain't  ketched  'im  yet,"  remarked  Mrs.  Prudence 
Bagley  sagaciously. 

XIV 

At  Floyd's  Bar 

In  the  meantime  William  Wornum  and  Nora  Ferryman 
seemed  to  drift  farther  apart.  He  was  as  familiar  and  as 
cordial  as  before,  but  he  was  by  no  means  as  talkative.  He 
sat  for  hours  in  the  evening  without  uttering  a  word,  save 


356  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

when  he  was  spoken  to,  and  even  then  he  vouchsafed  but 
brief  replies.  His  struggle  was  harder  than  he  suspected  it 
would  be  and  his  sacrifice  far  greater.  Nor  was  he  trou 
bled  much  with  the  small  flippancies  of  conversation.  Nora 
herself  grew  strangely  taciturn,  and  the  querulousness  of 
Miss  Jane  needed  but  small  reply.  But  occasionally  when 
he  was  sitting  on  the  little  porch  alone  with  the  blind  girl 
he  found  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  talk,  though  even  then 
his  conversation  took  strange  turns.  Tiny  Padgett  contin 
ued  his  visits,  and  the  schoolmaster,  who  had  grown  won 
derfully  familiar  with  this  unfortunate  victim  of  circum 
stance,  seemed  never  so  happy  as  when  listening  to  his  home 
ly  humor. 

"It's  a  pity,  Miss  Nora,"  said  William  Wornum  one  eve 
ning,  "that  you  can't  see  the  fireflies." 

"I  think  not,  Mr.  Wornum,"  said  Tiny  Padgett,  who  was 
sitting  in  the  darkest  corner.  "What  are  the  fireflies  to 
her?" 

"What  are  they  to  any  one  ?"  replied  the  schoolmaster  in 
a  little  heat. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  other.  "Absolutely  nothing.  They 
float  in  the  air  and  flare  up,  and  that  is  the  last  of  them. 
They  beat  senselessly  against  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  fly 
clumsily  on  their  way,  but  their  small  pulsations  of  light 
only  serve  to  make  the  night  darker." 

"They  do  the  best  they  can,"  the  schoolmaster  persisted. 

"O,  I  suppose  so,"  remarked  young  Padgett.  "The  most 
of  us  do  that.  But  what  does  it  amount  to,  after  all?" 

"Only  this,"  said  Nora  gently,  "the  best  we  can  do  is  the 
most  that  is  expected  of  us.  I  have  never  seen  the  fireflies 
and  can  form  no  conception  of  them,  save  that  I  know  they 
strive  to  light  up  the  night." 

"But  they  fail,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"After  trying,  yes.    But  is  it  their  fault?" 

"No,"  replied  William  Wornum.  "I  suppose  if  they  had 
a  limelight  they  would  endeavor  to  turn  it  on.  It  is  a  great 
blessing  to  you,  Miss  Nora,"  he  continued,  recurring  to 
some  idea  that  had  impressed  itself  upon  his  mind,  "that  you 
did  not  lose  your  eyesight  after  you  became  used  to  it.  You 
have  been  spared  an  affliction." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  357 

"Affliction !"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "I  think  not.  There  is 
no  affliction  in  blindness." 

"Not  to  you,  perhaps.  But  suppose  it  had  come  upon  you 
gradually." 

"I  have  often  wished  it  had,"  she  said,  sighing  gently. 
"Then  I  could  remember  the  faces  of  my  friends.  I  should 
know  something  of  their  appearance." 

"Perhaps  you  would  regret  it,"  the  schoolmaster  sug 
gested. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  cannot  conceive  of  such  a  thing. 
They  would  never  grow  old  to  me.  I  might  grow  gray  my 
self  and  gradually  fade  away,  but  my  friends  would  remain 
ever  young  and  fair." 

"We  all  ought  to  be  blind,  then,"  said  Tiny  Padgett  with 
sudden  fervor. 

"No,"  said  the  young  girl;  "we  all  ought  to  be  satis 
fied." 

"Well,"  responded  the  schoolmaster  a  little  bitterly, 
"that  is  only  another  name  for  blindness.  It  is  better  to  be 
blind." 

"Yes,"  said  Nora  in  a  low  tone ;  "it  is  better  to  be  blind." 

Whereupon  Tiny  Padgett,  conceiving  that  he  had  been 
given  a  tough  piece  of  philosophy  to  wrestle  with,  betook 
himself  to  Floyd's  bar,  where  in  a  very  short  time  he  be 
came  personally  interested  in  a  game  of  poker  and,  dwelling 
continually  upon  the  words  of  the  young  girl,  played  so 
recklessly  and  carelessly  that  he  became  the  winner  of  a 
large  sum.  Vanderlyn  dropped  in  while  the  game  was  in 
progress  and  laid  a  warning  hand  upon  Padgett's  shoulder, 
but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.  "I'm  in  for  it  now,  Van,"  he 
said  and  continued  the  game. 

While  Vanderlyn  stood  watching  the  game  a  stranger 
lounged  carelessly  into  the  bar.  He  was  an  individual  that 
would  have  attracted  attention  in  any  crowd.  A  fiery  red 
scar  shone  where  his  eyebrows  ought  to  have  been,  and  his 
appearance  was  altogether  forbidding.  His  voice  was  in 
keeping  with  his  general  appearance. 

"Mix  me  up  a  tod,  Tom,"  he  said  to  Floyd.  "It's  d— n 
hot.  I  ain't  seed  no  sich  weather  roun'  these  parts.  Make 
'er  stiff,  old  man." 

Vanderlyn  did  not  turn  around,  but  he  recognized  the 


358  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

voice.  It  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  darkness  that  surrounded 
the  lonely  cabin  of  'Cajy  Cooper. 

"Hello,  Jim,"  exclaimed  the  barkeeper  effusively.  "You 
here  ?"  It  looks  sorter  like  old  times.  But  I  tell  you  what, 
you  better  make  yourself  ska'ce.  Weather  like  this  the  boys 
ain't  to  be  depended  on." 

"O,  they  be  durn !"  said  the  other  vehemently.  "I  bin 
a-hidin'  out  an'  a-slippin'  roun'  tell  there  ain't  no  sense  in 
it.  Give  us  the  tod,  old  man." 

"I  jest  thought  I'd  drap  a  hint,"  said  the  other  as  he  put 
the  liquor  out.  "You  kin  take  the  chances  if  you  wanter, 
but  what  I  sez  I  sez  wi'  my  mouth  wide  open.  I  don't 
speechify  much;  but  I  keeps  up  a  mighty  thinkin',  an'  I 
mighty  nigh  allers  got  one  year  open." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  the  man  leaning  against  the  coun 
ter  carelessly,  "what  I  done  I  done.  I  didn't  make  no  bones 
un  it.  When  they  run  up  on  me,  sez  I :  'Gents,  I'm  your 
man/  I  wuz  on  the  square.  Sez  I :  'Ef  you  let  me  'lone, 
I'll  let  you  'lone.'  An'  now,  ef  they  come  houndin'  arter  me, 
a  peaceable  man,  by  God !  they'll  light  into  business.  You 
needn't  make  no  boast  un  it,  ole  man,  but  it's  jest  like  I  tell 
you." 

To  all  appearance  the  man  was  half  intoxicated.  He 
spoke  loud  and  boisterously,  and  his  attitude  as  he  leaned 
against  the  bar  was  one  of  defiance.  A  half-smoked  cigar 
was  stuck  in  his  mouth,  and  his  wool  hat  was  crushed  back 
upon  his  head.  Perfect  silence  reigned  in  the  room.  It  was 
the  turn  of  Mr.  George  Wellington  to  deal.  He  sat  facing 
Tiny  Padgett,  and  Vanderlyn  stood  just  behind  him.  Mr. 
Wellington  dealt  the  cards  leisurely  and  smoothly.  The 
little  bits  of  pasteboard  slipped  through  his  fingers  as  though 
they  were  oiled. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Padgett  after  a  little,  "for  the  sake  of 
the  game  I  will  call  you.  I  have  a  queen  full,  with  an  ace 
at  the  head." 

He  laid  down  his  cards  and  rose  leisurely  from  his  seat. 

"One  moment,  gentlemen,"  he  said  and  walked  up  to  the 
man  who  was  leaning  against  the  bar.  "Your  name  is  Ash- 
field,  I  believe." 

"That's  what  they  called  me  when  I  was  younger,"  replied 
the  other  somewhat  defiantly. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  359 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  outside  a  moment/*  Padgett  said. 

The  room  had  gradually  filled  with  people,  and  in  various 
portions  thereof  men  were  holding  little  whispered  conver 
sations. 

"You  wanter  see  me,  eh?"  asked  Ashfield  defiantly. 
"Well,  you  k'n  jest  stan'  up  an*  look  at  me  tell  you  git  your 
fill." 

By  this  time  quite  a  crowd  had  gathered,  and  it  was  a 
very  threatening  crowd. 

"The  man  is  insane,  Van,"  exclaimed  Padgett ;  "absolute 
ly  insane." 

As  he  spoke  the  young  man  turned  to  look  at  Vanderlyn, 
and  he  saw  a  sight  he  never  forgot.  Vanderlyn  was  stand 
ing  erect  gazing  at  Ashfield  with  an  intensity  that  was  al 
most  devouring  in  its  ferocity.  Ashfield  stood  glaring  back 
at  the  tall  man  with  an  expression  of  indecision  upon  his 
face  something  similar  to  that  we  sometimes  see  in  animals. 
He  was  not  a  prepossessing  man.  Just  above  his  eyebrows 
was  a  red  scar  that  seemed  burned  into  his  forehead,  and  it 
seemed  to  flame  out  under  the  light  of  the  candles  like  the 
mark  of  Cain.  It  was  a  most  horrible-looking  scar  and 
gave  to  the  man's  face  a  singular  expression  of  cruelty. 

"Mr.  Ashfield,"  said  young  Padgett,  making  one  more 
effort  to  get  the  man  away  from  the  crowd,  some  of  them 
drunk  and  all  of  them  somewhat  excited,  "I  would  like  to 
see  you  alone  a  few  moments." 

The  crowd  was  not  large;  but  Padgett  perceived,  as  he 
remarked  afterwards,  that  it  had  the  elements  of  business 
about  it,  and  he  wanted  to  get  Jim  Ashfield  away. 

"It's  no  use,  young  man.  You  can't  come  that  kinder 
game  over  me.  You  ain't  gwineter  git  me  out  thar  in  the 
dark  wi'  this  gang  hangin'  roun'." 

"Well,  there's  this  much  about  it,"  said  a  tall  young  fel 
low  named  Tump  Spivey,  "if  you  stay  here,  you'll  git  ac 
quainted  with  a  mighty  rough  set.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  take  a 
walk." 

Whatever  else  might  be  said  of  Jim  Ashfield,  he  was  not 
afraid. 

"A  d — n  nice  lot  you've  got  here,  Tom,"  he  remarked  to 
the  barkeeper.  "You  keep  'em  here  to  sorter  set  off  the 


360  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

place,  don't  you  ?  You  oughter  rent  'em  out  to  hang  up  in 
parlors." 

There  was  a  threatening  movement  in  the  crowd,  but 
Vanderlyn  interposed.  He  stepped  up  to  Ashfield  and  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I've  been  a-huntin'  this  man 
mighty  nigh  ten  years,  an'  now  I've  found  him.  He's  mine." 

Ashfield  looked  at  Vanderlyn,  and  the  very  scar  on  his 
face  paled.  The  face  of  the  stalwart  man  standing  before 
him  seemed  to  be  a  revelation.  He  would  have  shrunk 
away,  but  the  hand  of  the  other  restrained  him. 

"Gents,  this  man'll  murder  me,"  he  cried. 

Vanderlyn  laughed.  "  'Tain't  my  day  for  killin'  folks," 
he  said.  "I  wanter  see  you  outside,  Mr.  Jim  Ashfield." 

The  two  went  out  into  the  moonlight,  and  those  who  were 
curious  enough  to  watch  them  saw  them  sit  down  on  the 
steps  of  the  courthouse  and  engage  in  what  appeared  to  be 
an  earnest  conversation.  They  sat  thus  for  some  time,  and 
then  Jim  Ashfield  arose  and  slunk  away  in  the  shadows. 
Vanderlyn  remained,  and  the  gray  dawn  of  morning  found 
him  sitting  where  Jim  Ashfield  left  him. 

xv 

Thus  the  seasons  drifted  over  Rockville.  There  was 
trouble,  indeed,  but  it  seemed  to  fall  lightly  upon  the  people 
to  whom  it  has  been  the  purpose  of  this  brief  chronicle  to 
introduce  you.  It  was  blown  away  by  the  soft  winds  or 
dispelled  by  the  generous  sunshine.  The  days  ran  pleasant 
ly  into  each  other,  and  the  seasons  drifted  together  without 
clang  or  clamor.  The  schoolmaster,  Miss  Jane,  Nora,  and 
all  were  swept  unconsciously  into  the  future.  The  birds 
sang  all  around  them,  the  wonderful  birds;  and  the  flowers 
bloomed,  faded,  and  bloomed  again.  Only  the  sun  and  age 
were  constant.  The  one  shone  steadily,  and  the  other  crept 
on  apace,  but  both  came  upon  Rockville  serenely.  Time 
dealt  gently  with  the  people  who  played  their  small  parts 
and  whose  brief  histories  it  has  been  my  purpose  to  record 
here.  It  developed  Jack  into  a  manly  youth  and  added,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible,  to  the  marvelous  beauty  of  Nora 
Ferryman.  It  gave  a  touch  of  dignity  to  even  Mr.  Bagley's 


Early  Literary  Efforts  361 

careless  profanity,  and  Vanderlyn  himself  seemed  to  gain 
something  from  the  years.  The  school  prospered,  and  the 
people  were  at  peace. 

"It's  so  danged  quiet,"  said  Mr.  Bagley,  tapping  the  coun 
ter  of  Floyd's  bar  gently  and  reflectively,  "that  it  looks  like 
makin'  a  fuss  to  take  a  drink  er  water."  And  Mr.  Bagley, 
not  being  fond  of  making  a  row,  took  very  little  water. 

Jim  Ashfield  had  disappeared.  The  demonstration  made 
in  Floyd's  bar,  though  not  of  a  very  riotous  character,  was 
sufficient  to  convince  him  that  his  presence  was  not  desir 
able  to  the  people,  and  he  stayed  away.  Vanderlyn  strayed 
through  the  woods,  played  with  the  children,  and  gave  him 
self  almost  wholly  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  others.  To  quote 
again  from  Mr.  Bagley,  "He  looked  arter  other  people  and 
hovered  roun'  Jack."  He  seemed  to  live  and  move  as  one 
in  a  quandary.  A  great  change  came  over  him.  Whatever 
was  weak  received  his  sympathies,  and  he  searched  for 
helplessness  that  he  might  aid  it,  not  obtrusively,  but  gently 
and  delicately,  the  very  refinement  of  kindness.  He  was 
exceedingly  fond  of  visiting  the  Walthalls,  and  once  he  met 
Robert  Toombs  there.  Those  who  meet  this  remarkable  man 
now  have  little  conception  of  either  his  power  or  his  appear 
ance.  It  is  not  true  that  age  has  dulled  his  intellect,  but  he 
has  become  more  composed.  His  impulses  are  the  same, 
but  his  ambition  has  been  satisfied.  He  was  a  marvelous 
figure  in  his  youth,  fighting  his  way  through  the  confusion 
of  politics,  and  it  is  a  figure  that  has  become  historical.  I 
know  of  no  fitter  emblem  of  all  that  is  distinctively  Southern 
in  nature,  sentimental  and  suggestive,  than  a  portrait  of 
Robert  Toombs  as  he  appeared  in  1850  and  1853.  Probably 
I  do  not  make  my  meaning  clear,  because  I  speak  of  him  as 
an  embodiment  and  not  as  an  individual.  He  thus  appeared 
to  Vanderlyn,  who  was  pleased  with  the  imperious  manners 
and  dogmatic  utterances  of  the  man.  A  leader  of  men  can 
not  even  afford  to  give  a  hint  of  servility.  A  leader  may  be 
wrong,  but  he  must  be  in  earnest  even  in  his  errors.  Dog 
matism  is  the  ultimate  shape  of  truth,  and  imperiousness  is 
merely  a  form  of  conviction.  It  is  the  one  quality — perhaps 
I  should  call  it  an  element — of  the  human  mind  that  is  never 
overtaken  by  insincerity. 

I  mention  the  fact  of  the  meeting  of  these  two  men  be- 


362  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

cause  it  had  great  influence  in  bringing  about  the  events 
which  it  is  the  purpose  of  this  narrative — if  it  can  be  dig 
nified  by  the  name  of  narrative — to  relate.  Toombs  was 
young,  vigorous,  and  outspoken,  and  he  gave  his  convic 
tions  the  full  benefit  of  the  truths  he  thought  they  repre 
sented.  It  is  probable  he  lacked  the  quality  of  repression, 
but  it  is  certain  that  he  lacked  caution.  But  later,  on  a 
memorable  occasion,  he  rose  in  the  midst  of  an  excited 
crowd  of  his  countrymen  (it  was  in  Rockville,  and  Vander- 
lyn  was  one  of  the  audience)  and  said:  "Caution  is  a  non- 
essential.  Those  who  are  right  have  no  need  to  be  cautious. 
Right  will  assert  itself.  Principle  is  deathless.  I  tell  you 
here  that  principle  can  never  die.  It  may  involve  the  loss 
of  life,  of  hope,  of  peace,  and  of  everything  that  now  seems 
to  comfort  us.  It  may  even  involve  the  loss  of  what  people 
flippantly  call  honor.  I  know  of  nothing  so  honorable  as 
upholding  our  convictions.  We  may  deliver  to  our  children 
the  heritage  of  valor.  We  may  leave  to  them  the  trashy 
endowment  that  gives  traffic  its  importance  and  renders 
competition  endurable.  We  may  make  them  miserably 
poor  or  proudly  poor ;  but  we  shall  have  made  them  grand 
and  noble  and  powerful,  indeed,  if  we  have  but  convinced 
them  that  behind  all  legacies,  all  life,  and  all  experience 
there  is  a  principle  to  defend,  if  we  but  show  them  that  there 
is  something  dearer  than  gain,  something  higher  than  greed. 
I  tell  you  now  that  unless  you  stand  up  to  yourselves  and  to 
your  principles  the  trouble  of  strife  will  fall  upon  you.  I 
do  not  see  visions,  nor  do  I  dream  dreams.  No  man  is  true 
to  himself  who  cannot  sacrifice  himself.  When  there  comes 
to  be  a  lack  of  martyrs  in  the  land,  there  will  be  a  lack  of 
patriots." 

All  this,  eloquently  spoken  and  passionately  delivered,  had 
a  remarkable  effect  upon  Vanderlyn.  The  entire  oration 
was  upon  the  duties  of  the  people  of  the  South ;  but  the  man 
who  was  struggling  with  a  problem  took  no  note  of  its  gen 
eral  bearing.  It- seemed  addressed  to  him;  it  seemed  in 
tended  for  him.  He  could  not  escape  its  conclusions;  he 
could  not  reply  to  its  arguments.  He  had  no  opportunity 
for  thought  and  no  time  for  any ;  but  he  recognized  the  fact 
that  behind  and  beneath  the  fire  and  passion  of  that  wonder 
ful  orator  the  pulse  of  truth  was  beating  coolly,  calmly,  and 


Early  Literary  Efforts  363 

serenely.  And  afterwards,  when  the  speaker  was  through 
and  the  people  around  him  were  discussing  it,  Vanderlyn 
seemed  as  eager  to  hear  the  comments  as  he  had  been  to 
hear  the  discourse. 

"I  think/'  said  Judge  Walthall  to  William  Wornum  a 
little  while  afterwards,  "that  Toombs  may  succeed  as  a 
leader,  but  never  as  an  organizer.  The  tendency  of  his 
thought  is  disorganization." 

"I  doubt  this,"  replied  William  Wornum.  "Is  an  archi 
tect  who  tears  down  a  building  that  he  may  perfect  it  to 
be  called  a  disorganizer?  Those  who  prefer  the  whole  truth 
to  half  truths  have  to  wander  in  strange  and  devious  ways. 
Truth  sometimes  leads  to  revolution." 

"Is  it  not  possible,"  asked  the  Judge,  who  was  conserva 
tive  in  all  his  methods,  "that  what  you  speak  of  as  truth  is 
really  fanaticism?" 

"Possibly,"  said  the  other.  "Those  who  have  the  courage 
to  advocate  what  they  believe  to  be  right  do  not  take  the 
trouble  to  remember  whether  they  are  fanatics  or  not.  Men 
who  have  convictions  are  generally  fanatics,  whether  they 
are  right  or  wrong." 

"O  well,  as  to  that,"  said  the  Judge,  "I  am  willing  to 
admit  that  I  was  deeply  impressed  by  Toombs's  speech,  but 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  indiscretion." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  wide  veranda  that  ran  around 
the  Judge's  house,  and  Vanderlyn  was  sitting  with  them. 

"In  doing  what  is  right?"  asked  the  schoolmaster. 

"Not  exactly  that,"  answered  Judge  Walthall. 

"You  mean  a  man  should  not  become  the  victim  of  his 
opinions?" 

"Precisely  so.  He  should  not  become  a  slave  to  his  prej 
udices.  That  which  is  right  in  theory  may  be  awkward, 
even  wrong,  in  practice.  At  least  it  may  be  embarrassing." 

"Then  ef  it's  hard  to  do  right,  we  oughtn't  to  do  it,  I 
reckon,"  said  Vanderlyn,  straightening  himself  up  a  little. 

"Why,  we  ought  to  do  right,  as  a  matter  of  course,"  an 
swered  the  Judge. 

"Well,  now,  Jedge,  supposin'  in  your  younger  days  you 
had  a  brother,  a  wild  sort  of  a  young  fellow  who  got  into  a 
row  with  you  an'  some  others  an'  strayed  off  from  home 


364  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

before  you  knowed  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was  a-gwineter 
make." 

"Well,"  replied  the  Judge,  turning  suddenly  in  his  chair, 
"I  did  have  a  younger  brother  who  wandered  away  from 
home  in  his  youth.  He  was  a  little  wild  and  reckless,  but 
that  was  all.  Did  you  ever  meet  him  ?" 

"I  reckon  I  have,  Jedge.  He  wuz  a  mighty  loose  young 
ster  when  I  knowed  him  fust." 

The  Judge  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  "You  misjudge 
him,"  he  said.  "The  fault  was  mine.  But  why  have  you 
alluded  to  him?  He  is  dead/' 

"Well,  jest  this,  Jedge.  We  wuz  a-talkin'  'bout  what's 
right  an'  what  ain't  right.  S'pose  that  brother  er  yourn  wuz 
to  walk  in  on  you  some  day.  I  don't  say  he's  comin',  but 
suppose  he  wuz  to  drop  in  on  you.  Would  it  be  right  for 
you  to  divide  your  property  with  him?" 

The  Judge  paused  in  his  walk.  "Did  you  know  my  broth 
er?  He  was  very  young  when  he  left  home.  I  have  tried 
of  late  to  remember  him,  but  the  remembrance  is  exceeding 
ly  vague.  I  know  he  had  a  terrible  temper." 

"When  I  knowed  him,"  said  Vanderlyn,  laughing  a  little, 
"he  didn't  have  no  temper.  He  wuz  mighty  cool  and  calky- 
latin'." 

Upon  this  Judge  Walthall  became  very  eager  to  learn 
something  of  the  brother  the  memory  of  whom  seemed  al 
most  a  dream.  But  Vanderlyn  professed  to  know  but  little, 
and  his  replies  to  the  anxious  questions  of  the  Judge  were 
anything  but  satisfactory.  The  schoolmaster,  looking  at 
the  tall,  brawny  man  and  watching  somewhat  narrowly  the 
placid,  indifferent  manner  in  which  he  replied  to  the  eager 
inquiries,  formed  a  theory  of  his  own.  But  he  was  so  aston 
ished  at  the  absurdity  of  his  suspicions  that  he  did  not  act 
upon  the  impulse  that  prompted  him.  He  merely  asked: 
"What  was  the  name  of  this  whimsical  youth  who  could 
so  far  forget  his  duty  as  to  leave  his  friends  and  his  fam 
ily?" 

"I  disremember  now,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "but  I  think  they 
called  him  Calhoun." 

"That  was  his  name,"  said  the  Judge,  looking  out  over  the 
fields. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  365 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  the  schoolmaster,  watching  Vander- 
lyn  narrowly. 

"He  ain't  so  dead  but  what  he  might  be  brung  to  life, 
said  the  latter. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge,  "he  is  dead.  He  was  wild  and 
wayward,  but  he  was  not  ungenerous.  He  was  not  unfor 
giving." 

"But,"  remarked  Vanderlyn,  preparing  to  leave,  "s'pose 
he  sorter  got  'shamed  er  his  prank,  s'pose  he's  a-fixin'  up  a 
plan  that'll  kinder  make  up  for  his  shortcomings." 

"Well,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "I  think  he  is  committing 
a  very  grave  error." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  the  Judge;  "he  is  dead." 

XVI 

Catching  Grasshoppers. 

"Why  do  you  think  your  brother  is  dead,  Judge?"  asked 
the  schoolmaster,  watching  Vanderlyn  narrowly. 

"It  has  been  so  long  ago,"  answered  Judge  Walthall,  toy 
ing  with  his  watch  fob  somewhat  nervously.  "I  cannot  con 
ceive  how  the  indignation  of  a  youth  can  perpetuate  itself. 
He  was  a  mere  boy,  a  child  almost,  but  very  impetuous.  I 
know  now  that  it  was  wrong  to  endeavor  to  harshly  restrain 
him  in  his  boyish  whims  or  to  attempt  to  control  his  foolish 
fancies.  But  he  was  generous.  In  time  he  would  either 
have  forgotten  or  forgiven  what  he,  lacking  judgment,  con 
ceived  to  be  an  undue  exercise  of  authority." 

"Well,"  said  the  schoolmaster  gravely,  as  if  preparing  to 
argue  the  matter,  and  still  looking  curiously,  if  not  inquisi 
tively,  at  Vanderlyn,  "it  is  possible  that  it  may  have^  been 
otherwise.  It  may  be  that  pride  and  not  generosity  is  the 
cause  of  the  singular  absence  of  your  younger  brother.  It 
may  be  that  other  circumstances  have  intervened.  We  can 
not  tell.  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge.  After  all,  he  may  be 
dead.  But  where  the  human  heart  is  concerned,  human 
judgment  is  at  fault.  You  remember,  Judge,  that  the  old 
philosophers — and  new  ones  too,  for  that  matter — write 
long  disquisitions  on  human  motives  and  impulses,  and  we 
know  no  more  of  these  than  of  the  sprouting  corn,  and  not 
so  much.  In  nature  like  begets  like,  but  in  the  human  heart 


366  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

one  impulse  begets  another  totally  indifferent  in  kind  and 
degree." 

"I  understand  that/'  said  the  Judge  sadly.  "I  understand 
that  well  enough ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  can  conceive  of 
nothing,  no  circumstance  and  no  contingency,  that  could 
have  intervened  between  my  brother  and  his  family  when 
he  had  once  come  to  understand  his  duties,  when  he  had 
once  come  to  discover  that  his  future  had  been  marred  by 
boyish  folly." 

"This  is  true,  Judge  Walthall,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"according  to  our  methods  of  reasoning,  but  our  desires  con 
trol  our  reasoning  just  as  they  control  our  appetites.  Hu 
man  nature,  in  every  respect,  is  pure  selfishness  from  begin 
ning  to  end — or,  I  may  say,  pure  vanity.  None  of  us,  of 
course,  feel  like  analyzing  the  motives  of  martyrdom.  But 
suppose  they  were  analyzed.  What  then?  We  would  all 
be  surprised.  Perhaps  we  would  "be  mortified.  At  any  rate, 
I  believe  we  would  be  most  grievously  disappointed." 

Vanderlyn  arose,  walked  the  length  of  the  veranda,  and 
sat  down  again.  He  seemed  to  be  greatly  troubled,  and  yet 
he  yielded  to  the  inclination  to  laugh  a  little  at  the  rather 
odd  direction  the  conversation  had  taken. 

"Jedge,"  he  said  promptly,  "this  brother  er  yourn  never 
went  to  school ;  he  didn't  have  time.  I  knowed  him  mighty 
well,"  he  continued  as  if  calling  to  mind  the  appearance  of 
some  scene  or  picture.  "I  knowed  'im  like  he  knowed 
'isse'f,"  he  went  on,  smiling  in  such  a  peculiar  manner  as 
almost  to  confirm  the  theory  of  the  schoolmaster. 

That  same  afternoon  the  fair  Katherine  Underwood, 
walking,  as  was  her  custom,  under  the  spread!  .ig  chestnut 
trees,  heard  her  name  called.  She  knew  the  voice  was  that 
of  Vanderlyn,  but  such  a  change  had  seemed  to  come  over 
it  that  she  turned  quickly  to  look.  A  change  seemed  to  have 
come  over  the  man.  If  possible,  he  walked  more  er:ct,  and 
it  seemed  that  he  had  gathered  from  some  source  new 
strength  and  new  dignity. 

"Miss  Underwood,"  he  said  simply,  "I  would  like  to  walk 
with  you  a  few  moments." 

She  noticed  the  chanee  in  his  voice  and  manner,  the 
change  in  his  language.  He  was  dressed  more  carefully  than 


Early  Literary  Efforts  367 

usual,  and  his  whole  appearance  had  undergone  some  re 
markable  metamorphosis. 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said,  coloring  a  little. 
She  was  astonished — more  astonished,  indeed,  than  if  she 
had  had  no  suspicions.  It  was  a  revelation  she  had  pre 
dicted,  but  had  not  expected. 

"You  told  me  some  time  ago,"  his  strong,  firm  voice 
sounding  musical,  "that  you  believed  me  to  be  masquerad 
ing.  You  were  quite  right,  save  that  my  masquerade  is  in 
some  respects  a  serious  one.  I  am  in  a  quandary,  and  I 
come  to  you  for  advice.  You  are  wise  and  good  and  true, 
and  I  know  that  whatever  you  may  say  to  a  wayfaring  man, 
a  stranger  almost,  will  be  just  and  kind." 

And  so  the  two,  followed  by  Miss  Underwood's  smallest 
pupil,  bearing  an  exaggerated  bouquet  of  flowers  in  her 
little  hands,  wandered  through  the  green  dusk  of  the  great 
woods,  and  Vanderlyn  told  his  story.  The  little  girl,  playing 
with  her  grasses  and  flowers,  gave  little  heed  to  the  two. 
Whatever  the  nature  of  the  story,  its  effect  was  lost  upon 
her.  She  played  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  voices  of  the  man 
and  woman  came  to  her  as  confused  as  the  murmur  of  bees. 
But  when  Miss  Underwood  and  the  child,  leaving  Vander 
lyn  standing  under  the  great  trees,  started  homeward,  the 
little  girl  saw  with  wonder  that  the  lady  was  weeping,  not 
as  one  in  grief,  but  gently  and  quietly.  Whereupon  with 
childish  sympathy  she  dropped  her  grasses  and  flowers  and 
put  her  hand  in  that  of  her  teacher;  and  then  the  woman, 
overcome  by  some  sudden  emotion,  stooped  and  kissed  the 
little  one,  and  they  went  homeward  hand  in  hand. 

Vanderlyn  stood  where  Miss  Underwood  had  left  him 
until  the  lady  and  the  little  girl  had  passed  out  of  sight;  and 
then  he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  old  church,  whose  spire 
shone  in  the  sun.  Here  was  the  village  cemetery,  and 
through  this  Vanderlyn  wandered  until  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  woman  placing  flowers  upon  a  grave.  She 
was  bareheaded.  Her  hair  was  disheveled,  and  her  clothes 
were  old  and  threadbare.  It  was  'Cindy  Ashfield.  She  rose 
as  Vanderlyn  came  forward. 

He  forgot  to  drop  into  the  provincial  dialect  that  had 
become  habitual.  The  image  of  the  schoolmistress,  her 
tenderness,  and  her  sympathy  were  still  with  him. 


368  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

'  'Cindy,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  me?" 

"She  raised  her  hands  in  the  air  as  if  in  deprecation  of 
the  question  and  exclaimed:  "Why,  good  Lord,  Mr.  Van- 
derlyn!  I'd  know  you  anywheres?  I'll  remember  you  to 
the  day  er  my  death.  I  wuz  jest  a-puttin'  some  flowers," 
she  continued  in  a  tone  that  conveyed  the  idea  of  an  apolo 
gy,  "on  the  grave  uv  a  little  baby." 

There  was  a  pause.  Vanderlyn  glanced  at  the  marble 
tablet.  The  name  it  bore  was  "CALHOUN  WALTHALL."  He 
stood  like  one  in  a  dream.  Finally  he  turned  to  the  forlorn- 
looking  woman  and  said : 

'  'Cindy,  would  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"I'd  crawl  on  my  knees  fer  you  anywheres  and  any  time." 

Vanderlyn  smiled  a  little.  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do 
something  that  will  be  very  hard  for  you  to  do,"  he  said 
gently. 

1  'Twon't  be  hard  for  me,"  she  replied.  Then,  a  little 
more  calmly:  "When  you  want  me,  you  jist  call  on  me." 

"Very  well,  'Cindy.  When  I  do,  you  must  remember 
that  it  is  not  for  my  sake,  but  for  yours,  that  I  ask  you  to 
make  a  sacrifice.  Have  you  seen  your  brother  lately?" 

"Jim?  I  ain't  seen  Jim  since  punkins  wuz  ripe.  I  heer 
tell  that  Jim's  a-settin'  up  to  a  gal  down  'bout  Augusty." 

"Well,  suppose  I  should  want  him,"  asked  the  other. 
"What  then?" 

"O,  he'd  come.  Where'  he's  tuk  one  resk,  he'd  take  an 
other.  Jim  ain't  afeerd  of  snakes,  I  kin  tell  you."  She  was 
evidently  proud  of  this  vagrant  brother  of  hers. 

"I  must  see  him  before  very  long.  If  you  can  get  word 
to  him,  I  would  be  glad." 

With  a  profusion  of  promises  the  woman  picked  up  her 
faded  old  sunbonnet  and  disappeared  through  the  fields  that 
lay  beyond  the  burying  ground  just  as  William  Wornum 
came  in  sight,  walking  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  he  said  without  further  greeting, 
"of  that  brother  of  Walthall's  and  the  motive  that  prompted 
him  to  leave  his  friends  and  all  he  held  most  dear.  He  was 
a  royal  youth,  no  doubt.  Where  he  couldn't  reign  he  re 
fused  to  abide." 

Vanderlyn  laughed.  "I  reckon  he  thought  they  wuz 
a-hummin'  at  'im  a  little  too  lively,"  once  more  dropping 


Early  Literary  Efforts  369 

into  the  provincial  speech.  "Then,  ag'in,  maybe  he  didn't 
wanter  be  cooped  up  in  the  little  house  where  he  was 
borned ;  an*  then  maybe,  arter  he  gotter  wanderin'  roun',  he 
sorter  liked  the  business." 

"O,  we  can  imagine  any  motive  that  controlled  him.  We 
can  say  that  he  had  a  streak  of  the  vagabond  in  him  and  that 
he  was  weak  enough  to  be  influenced  by  it.  But  what  I 
want  to  get  at,  if  I  can,  is  the  real  motive  that  controlled 
him.  You  knew  him,  I  believe?" 

"Passing  well,"  said  Vanderlyn  in  a  tone  that  somewhat 
startled  the  schoolmaster.  At  least  it  is  presumed  that  he 
was  startled.  He  jumped  up,  slapped  Vanderlyn  on  the 
shoulder,  and  laughed  most  immoderately.  It  was  evident 
from  this  that  amusement  was  thoroughly  mixed  with  as 
tonishment. 

"Well,  by  George,  Vanderlyn !"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is 
getting  to  be  rich — in  fact,  I  may  say  interesting.  'Passing 
well !'  Upon  my  soul,  it  is  curious  how  two  little  words  like 
that  will  dispel  a  delusion." 

"Well,  now,  schoolmaster,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "I  tell  you 
what,  it's  a  mighty  long  lane  that  ain't  got  no  turnin'." 

The  schoolmaster  stopped  him.  "Come,  now,  this  won't 
do.  You  must  at  least  be  candid  with  me." 

"Candid !"  exclaimed  the  other,  laughing.  "How  could  I 
propose  to  ask  your  advice  in  regard  to  a  matter  that 
touches  me  very  nearly  ?" 

"At  any  rate,"  replied  William  Wornum,  grumbling  over 
this  as  over  other  things,  "you  ought  to  have  allowed  me  to 
point  my  moral.  I  was  going  on  to  preach  quite  a  sermon 
about  duty ;  but  as  this  is  a  very  intricate  matter  and  involves 
much  logic,  I  am  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  foregoing 
the  lecture.  You  have  been  spared  an  affliction.  It  was 
prepared  beforehand.  This  changes  matters.  The  royal 
duke  will  proceed  to  drop  his  mask  and  inform  the  audience 
what  particular  part  he  is  playing.  Hang  it  all,  old  fellow, 
let  an  agitated  spectator  come  behind  the  scenes." 

"Well,  the  truth  is,  Mr.  Wornum,"  replied  the  other, 
straightening  himself  up  a  little,  "I  was  about  to  ask  your 
advice,  and  in  this  instance  to  ask  your  advice  is  to  make  a 
confession." 

Which  he  proceeded  to  do,  and  the  two  sat  talking  until 
24 


370  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

long  after  darkness  had  fallen  upon  the  scene — sat  talking 
until  Nora  Ferryman  grew  weary  of  listening  for  the  school 
master's  footsteps  and  until  Jack  grew  weary  of  hunting  for 
Dan.  What  they  talked  about  and  what  they  determined 
upon  will  be  developed  as  this  chronicle  proceeds  to  a  con 
clusion.  Finally  they  arose,  walked  homeward  through  the 
shadows  of  the  night,  and  parted  at  Miss  Ferryman's  gate. 
Tiny  Padgett,  sitting  over  against  the  little  cottage,  pensively 
gazing  in  the  direction  of  Nora's  window,  heard  the  two 
coming  slowly  along  the  street  and  caught  a  portion  of  the 
conversation. 

"It  will  be  a  delicate  undertaking/'  the  schoolmaster  was 
saying. 

"But  it  must  be  undertaken  all  the  same/'  Vanderlyn  said. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "that  is  my  advice.  But  first  we 
must  find  our  man." 

"That  is  my  undertaking,"  said  Vanderlyn.  "I  will  find 
him.  It  may  be  a  little  troublesome,  but  I  will  find  him." 

They  were  about  to  part  when  Vanderlyn  turned  to  the 
schoolmaster  suddenly  and  said :  "I  am  worried  about  Jack. 
This  has  troubled  me  all  along.  What  will  he  say  ?" 

"Of  this  you  may  be  certain,"  the  schoolmaster  said, 
"whatever  happens,  you  may  be  sure  of  Jack's  love.  Few 
boys  love  their  fathers  as  Jack  loves  you.  You  may  be  as 
sured  of  that." 

"Well,"  said  Vanderlyn,  his  strong  voice  faltering  a  little, 
"it's  all  for  Jack's  good,  but  it's  hard.  You  can't  imagine 
the  way  Jack  and  I  get  along." 

"O  yes,  I  can,"  replied  the  schoolmaster.  "I  thought  it  a 
little  queer  at  first,  but  it  is  the  best.  I  often  envy  you." 

"Envy  me  ?"  asked  the  other  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  sadly.  "I  envy  any  man  who  is 
beloved." 

And  Nora,  hearing  the  words  and  catching  the  sadness 
of  the  tone,  arose  from  the  window  where  she  had  been 
sitting  and  walked  up  and  down  through  the  darkness  of 
her  room,  wringing  her  hands  and  weeping.  And  Tiny 
Padgett,  sitting  on  the  other  side,  stroked  his  mustache  re 
flectively  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  and  the  school 
master  were  in  the  same  boat ;  for  he  could  not  penetrate  the 


Early  Literary  Efforts  371 

darkness  and  behold  the  trouble  of  the  fair  young  girl,  nor 
could  he  look  into  the  future  and  behold  what  was  to  come. 

The  two  men  parted,  one  going  to  his  room  and  the  other 
wandering  aimlessly  and  thoughtfully  under  the  elm  and 
china  trees,  but  both  leaving  young  Padgett  alone  with  the 
night.  He  sat  there  as  silently  as  darkness  itself.  He  sat 
there  until  the  gray  dawn  shone  as  white  as  the  ashes  on  his 
cigar;  and  then  he  arose,  looking  pale  and  haggard,  and 
went  toward  his  home,  caring  little  for  his  forlornness,  but 
thinking  always  of  the  blind  girl  he  loved,  but  whose  love 
he  did  not  hope  to  win.  He  did  not  reach  home.  Upon  the 
street  near  the  courthouse  he  met  Vanderlyn. 

"We're  having  lots  of  fun,  ain't  we,  old  man?  If  the 
crash  was  to  come  now,  we  would  be  numbered  among  the 
early  pilgrims.  By  the  by,  Van,  I  noticed  to-night  that 
you  had  ceased  to  talk  like  a  stage  driver.  I  told  Miss  Nora 
a  long  time  ago  that  you  were  a  humbug,  but  a  good  one." 

"Tiny,"  said  Vanderlyn,  placing  his  hand  upon  the  young 
man's  shoulder  in  an  affectionate  way,  "what  are  you  doing 
wandering  around  this  early  in  the  morning?" 

"Viewing  nature,"  said  the  other  gravely,  "and  hunting 
up  great  big  humbugs  like  yourself.  I  also  have  a  habit  of 
driving  grasshoppers  through  the  dew.  Their  wings  get 
damp,  and  they  are  easily  caught." 

Behind  these  light  words  Vanderlyn  could  see  the  signs 
of  great  mental  suffering,  and  he  sympathized  most  keenly 
with  the  wayward  youth  whose  ultra-carelessness  could  not 
conceal  his  distress. 

"The  grasshoppers  that  you  find  at  this  hour,"  said  Van 
derlyn,  "must  be  desperately  early  risers.  They  are  prob 
ably  hard  to  catch." 

"They  are  never  caught,"  replied  Tiny.  "Though  there 
were  legions  of  them,  they  would  elude  me." 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "they  elude  the  best  of  us. 
They  flutter  into  our  hands  and  out  again." 

"They  rise  upon  the  wind,"  said  Tiny,  "and  are  blown  out 
of  reach." 

"I  cannot  tell,  but  they  seem  to  be  worth  striving  after." 


372  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

XVII 

Thistledown  Blown  by  the  Wind 

Wandering  through  the  streets  of  Rockville  one  after 
noon,  the  schoolmaster  was  overtaken  by  young  Reed.  The 
latter  was  pale  and  excited,  and  he  laughed  nervously  when 
the  schoolmaster  asked  anxiously  as  to  the  condition  of  his 
health.  Suddenly  as  they  walked  along  the  younger  of  the 
two  turned  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  other. 
"I  have  asked  Nora  Ferryman  to  marry  me." 

William  Wornum  had  endeavored  to  prepare  himself  for 
such  an  emergency.  He  had  endeavored  to  school  himself 
so  that  he  c  ;uld  smile  serenely  upon  whoever  made  this  an 
nouncement,  and  he  partially  succeeded,  but  in  spite  of 
himself  his  hand  trembled  as  he  grasped  that  of  the  other. 
"I  suppose  I  must  congratulate  you,"  he  said  simply. 

"No,"  replied  the  other  bitterly ;  "it  is  Miss  Nora  whom 
you  must  congratulate." 

"And  why  not  you?" 

"Upon  my  failure?" 

William  Wornum,  looking  at  his  friend  narrowly,  read 
upon  his  handsome  face  the  disappointment  of  an  unsuc 
cessful  lover. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  stopping  short,  "that 
she  has  refused  you?" 

"I  mjuu  just  that,"  replied  the  other. 

"Well,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "you  must  never  give  up. 
Maybe  she  is  only  teasing  you.  Women  know  how  to  tanta 
lize,  especially  young  women.  You  will  have  to  try  again." 

"No,"  said  Reed,  "she  is  not  playing  with  me.  She  was 
very  kind  and  very  gentle,  but  very  much  in  earnest.  She 
gave  me  to  understand,"  he  continued,  "that  she  loves  some 
one  else.  It  must  be  Padgett." 

"Impossible !"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"Why  impossible?" 

"He  is  utterly  unworthy  of  her  love." 

"As  a  matter  of  course,  but  what  has  love  to  do  with 
worthiness  or  unworthiness?" 

"It  has  everything  to  do  with  it,"  replied  the  schoolmaster. 

The  young  lawyer  laughed.  "It  has  everything  to  do  with 
it  and  nothing,"  he  said.  "If  you  feel  in  the  humor,"  he 


Early  Literary  Efforts  373 

said  grimly,  "we  will  go  out  here  in  the  woods  and  make  the 
matter  a  subject  of  debate.  I  do  not  know  of  a  more  appro 
priate  theme.  I  shall  insist  that  love  is  utterly  independent 
of  every  motive  and  every  incident  of  human  life,  and  you 
will  hold  that  it  is  not.  We  shall  have  a  good  deal  of  amuse 
ment,  no  doubt." 

The  schoolmaster  observed  that  the  young  man's  tone  was 
full  of  bitterness,  and  he  made  some  feeble  effort  to  console 
his  friend,  dwelling  upon  the  probability  that  her  rejection 
of  his  suit  was  merely  the  result  of  a  girlish  whim. 

"Why,  Wornum,  do  you  think  I  could  be  mistaken  in  a 
matter  of  this  kind?  If  she  had  smiled,  if  there  had  been 
any  hesitation  in  her  manner,  I  should  have  dreamed  of  a 
possibility;  but  she  seemed  to  be  full  of  sorrow  that  she 
should  be  compelled  to  disappoint  me." 

"Do  you  remember  her  words  ?"  asked  the  schoolmaster. 

"Perfectly.  'Mr.  Reed/  she  said,  'I  regard  you  as  a  very 
dear  friend,  but  I  cannot  love  you  as  a  wife  should  love  her 
husband/  I  can  tell  you  no  more,"  said  Reed.  "That  is 
sufficient." 

"Yes,"  said  William  Wornum,  "that  is  quite  sufficient." 
But  he  determined  in  his  own  mind  that  it  was  not  sufficient, 
and  he  concluded  to  investigate  the  matter.  He  saw  Nora 
that  evening.  She  was  sitting  in  the  porch  when  the  school 
master  went  home,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  approaching  the 
subject. 

"Nora,"  he  said,  "what  is  this  about  young  Reed?  Are 
you  prejudiced  against  him?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  Cn  the  contrary,  I  regard  him  as  a 
very  dear  friend,  nothing  more. ' 

"He  has  asked  you  to  become  his  wife?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  refused?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  an  old  friend.    Would  you  mind  telling  me  why?" 

"You  might  as  veil  a?7;  me,  Mr.  Wornum,  why  the  wind 
blows  from  the  east  or  the  i.ortli  instead  of  from  the  south 
and  west.  I  only  know  that  I  do  not  love  him.  Why,  I 
cannot  tell.  I  an.  v.ry  soi.y." 

"Yes,"  said  the  schoolmaster;  "so  he  said.  He  said  he 
was  touched  by  your  sympathy." 


374  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Did  he  ask  you  to  come  to  me,  Mr.  Wornum  ?"  the  young 
girl  asked  so  caolly  that  it  somewhat  embarrassed  the  school 
master. 

"No ;  I  came  on  my  own  accord.  He  is  my  friend.  He  is 
noble,  generous,  and  brave.  Few  men's  lives  are  so  pure. 
I  believe  you  could  aid  him  to  make  a  great  career." 

"You  talk  like  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Wornum.  Mr.  Reed  should 
congratulate  himself  that  he  has  such  able  counsel." 

Her  tone  and  manner  were  cold.  It  seemed  to  the  school 
master  that  the  petulant  girl  whom  he  used  to  tease  had  sud 
denly  grown  out  of  his  recollection.  The  serenity  of  wom 
anhood  seemed  to  have  settled  upon  Nora ;  but,  somehow  or 
other,  it  occurred  to  the  man  who  was  talking  to  her  that 
the  sudden  dignity  with  which  she  had  cloaked  herself  was 
nearly  allied  to  sorrow. 

"In  a  matter  of  this  kind,  Nora,"  he  replied  gravely,  "I 
am,  of  course,  counsel  for  you  as  well  as  for  my  friend." 

"Did  your  friend  ask  you  to  appear  in  his  behalf?" 

"No,  no !  Nothing  like  that.  I  came  of  my  own  accord. 
I  came  in  the  interest  of  two  very  dear  friends.  Perhaps  I 
have  made  a  mistake." 

"You  certainly  have  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  Wornum." 

"Well,"  he  said  lowering  his  voice,  "I  know  you  will  par 
don  me.  I  am  unfortunate.  We  are  all  liable  to  make 
mistakes." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  the  green 
fields.  The  whole  world  seemed  stretched  out  before  him. 
It  was  the  future,  he  thought,  and  it  appeared  to  invite  him. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,"  he  said  presently. 
"But  it  is  a  small  matter,  after  all.  We  have  been  friends 
since  you  were  a  little  girl.  I  remember  as  well  as  if  it  were 
yesterday  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  I  should  be  glad  to  go 
over  all  the  old  days  again.  I  would  be  glad  for  you  to  recall 
them  now,  for  in  searching  your  memory  you  can  tell  me 
where  I  have  been  unkind  or  even  thoughtless.  I  want 
you  to  forgive  me." 

He  turned  and  saw  that  she  was  weeping  as  though  her 
heart  would  break,  and  he  stood  watching  her  a  little  while. 
Presently  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  very  gentle :  "I  am  going 
away  shortly,  and  it  will  be  pleasant  to  know  that  you  do 
not  remember  me  unkindly." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  375 

"Going  away !" 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  Europe.  By  the  time  I  return  time 
will  have  made  vast  changes,  and  I  do  not  care  to  go  away 
with  the  impression  that  I  have  been  unkind  to  any  of  my 
friends." 

"You  have  not  been  unkind  to  me,  Mr.  Wornum." 

"And  yet  I  have  wounded  your  feelings,"  he  replied. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  have  not  wounded  me.  You  do  not 
understand." 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  he  answered.  "I  do  things  very  awk 
wardly.  I  am  sometimes  amazed  at  my  own  stupidity. 
When  Reed  told  me  that  you  would  not  marry  him,  I  con 
cluded  that  he  was  laboring  under  a  delusion,  and  I  came 
to  you  in  his  behalf." 

"He  was  laboring  under  no  delusion,  Mr.  Wornum.  How 
could  you  possibly  believe  I  was  trifling  with  him?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  know  how  women  are.  There  is 
an  old  saying  that  'A  woman's  will  is  the  wind's  will.' '' 

"The  will  of  a  true  woman,  Mr.  Wornum,  can  neither  be 
blown  about  by  the  wind  nor  bleached  by  the  sun." 

"It  should  not  be,"  he  said,  "but  it  often  is.  We  cannot 
tell.  The  best  we  can  do  is  to  make  a  mistake  and  then 
correct  it.  I  have  made  a  mistake  and  have  attempted  to 
correct  it." 

"You  have  corrected  it,  Mr.  Wornum." 

"I  should  not  have  made  it,"  he  answered. 

"That  is  true.  You  have  known  me  for  years,  and  yet 
you  seemed  to  believe  me  capable  of  trifling  with  the  feel 
ings  of  your  dearest  friend." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other.  "I  am  unaccustomed  to  these  things. 
I  could  not  see  how  a  young  girl  could  throw  away  such  a 
heart  as  Emory  Reed  could  offer." 

"But  what  of  the  girl's?  Suppose  she  had  none  to  give 
him  in  return?" 

"I  had  an  intimation  of  that,"  he  answered,  but  I  did 
not  believe  it.  I  cannot  understand  how  love  can  be  be 
stowed  unworthily." 

"Unworthily,  Mr.  Wornum?" 

"Yes,  I  cannot  understand,  for  instance,  how  a  woman 
could  come  to  prefer  Tiny  Padgett  to  Emory  Reed."  He 
was  apparently  determined  to  cross-examine  her. 


376  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"And  pray,  Mr.  Wornum,  who  has  such  a  preference?" 
She  spoke  as  coldly  as  at  first.  "Which  of  your  lady  friends 
has  expressed  herself  as  preferring  Tiny  Padgett  to  Emory 
Reed?" 

"O,  none.  I  am  only  drawing  a  comparison.  I  was  think 
ing  of  such  a  possibility.  And  yet  it  is  possible  that  in  some 
woman's  mind,  some  woman  who  knows  little  of  the  world, 
the  two  might  be  rivals,  and  her  choice  midit  alight  upon 
Padgett." 

"And  if  it  did?"  asked  Nora.  "I  will  say  to  you  frankly, 
Mr.  Wornum,  that  of  the  two  men  I  greatly  prefer  Mr. 
Padgett.  Do  you  wish  to  know  why  ?" 

"I  have  no  right  to  know,"  he  answered. 

"I  have  a  right  to  tell  you,"  raising  her  hand  in  the  air 
as  if  to  brush  away  something  in  the  air  about  her.  "I  like 
him,"  she  continued,  "because  he  knows  what  trouble  is; 
because  with  all  his  faults  he  is  gentle,  tender,  and  thought 
ful  of  others." 

"And  because  he  loves  you." 

"I  am  glad  he  does,"  she  cried  impetuously. 

The  schoolmaster  had  never  seen  her  so  excited,  and  he 
thought  that  Padgett  must  be  fortunate  indeed  to  have  won 
the  esteem  of  such  a  woman.  It  was  a  problem  he  could  not 
solve,  and  yet  how  easy  it  was  of  solution !  To  this  girl  the 
rumors  of  Padgett's  excesses,  the  talk  of  his  wickedness, 
was  as  thistle  blown  upon  the  wind.  She  only  knew  of  his 
gentleness.  He  was  wont  to  say  to  himself  that  he  left  his 
waywardness  at  the  door  of  the  little  cottage,  and  he  did 
leave  it  there.  Sin  dropped  from  him  like  a  garment  when 
he  entered  the  gate;  and  the  blind  girl  only  knew  of  him 
that  he  was  gentle,  tender,  considerate,  and  always  disposed 
to  disparage  himself. 

"I  can  understand  that,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  replying 
to  her  exclamation ;  "but  are  you  not  glad  that  Emory  Reed 
loves  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly.    "I  am  glad,  but  that  is  all." 

XVIII 

The  schoolmaster  passed  out  of  the  room  and  went  into 
the  street.  He  did  not  look  at  Nora  as  he  turned  to  go,  or 


Early  Literary  Efforts  377 

he  would  have  seen  how  pale  she  was  and  how  tightly  her 
hands  were  clasped  together.  She  stood  thus  and  heard  the 
gate  shut  behind  him  and  then  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 
as  he  passed  up  the  street,  until  finally  all  was  silent.  Then 
she  went  slowly  to  her  room  and  sat  by  the  window.  It  was 
her  favorite  position  when  she  felt  in  the  mood  for  thought 
or  when  anything  troubled  her.  The  afternoon  waned.  The 
sun,  a  great  red  globe  of  fire,  hung  suspended  for  a  moment 
in  the  mists  that  veiled  the  horizon  and  then  sank  slowly 
out  of  sight.  The  gray  twilight  deepened  into  dusk,  and  the 
dusk  made  way  for  her  mistress,  Night.  But  still  Nora  sat 
at  the  window.  Miss  Jane  looked  in  once,  but  spoke  no 
word.  She  thought  the  girl  was  in  one  of  her  "tantrums," 
as  she  forcibly  expressed  it,  and  she  went  away.  The  night, 
accompanied  by  sad  stars,  drifted  steadily  toward  the  pale 
morning.  The  moon,  an  awkward  crescent,  peeped  for  a 
moment  over  the  hills  and  then  moved  steadily  up  the  dark 
skies.  Aroused,  perhaps,  by  some  mimic  dreams,  a  mocking 
bird  flew  upward  out  of  a  bush  in  the  garden  and,  fluttering 
a  moment  in  the  air,  dropped  back  upon  its  perch  and  broke 
into  a  song  of  wondrous  melody,  strength,  and  variety,  but 
the  marvelous  execution  of  the  bird  was  lost  upon  Nora. 
She  sat  at  the  window  thinking,  thinking,  always  thinking, 
and  the  burthen  of  her  thoughts  was  always  the  same :  "He 
is  going  away !"  She  knew  now  why  she  had  listened  for 
the  schoolmaster  and  why  in  the  pleasant  evenings  it  had 
been  her  delight  to  sit  quietly  by  while  he  wove  his  strange 
fancies — learned,  quaint,  or  foolish — into  words. 

Nora  knew  she  loved  him,  but  this  knowledge  gave  her 
neither  pain  nor  uneasiness.  Indeed,  she  was  comparatively 
happy.  No  thought  of  a  change  ever  occurred  to  her,  and 
she  was  content  as  long  as  matters  remained  as  they  were. 
Therefore,  when  the  knowledge  came  to  her  that  William 
Wornum  was  going  away,  the  shock  it  gave  her  surprised 
even  herself.  For  a  moment  she  was  paralyzed,  the  next 
she  was  wondering  why,  and  then  she  found  herself  quietly 
conversing  with  the  schoolmaster.  Whereupon  she  won 
dered  why  she  was  so  calm  and  was  then  surprised  that  she 
had  thought  of  anything  else  save  that  he  was  going  away. 

Sitting  thus,  thinking  of  the  trouble  that  had  come  to  her, 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

she  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  presently  she  was  able  to  distinguish  the  words. 

"It's  pretty  late,  I  reckon,"  said  one,  which  she  knew  to 
be  Vanderlyn's. 

"Past  two  o'clock,"  said  the  other,  which  she  knew  to  be 
William  Wornum's. 

"Well,"  said  the  first,  "we've  got  that  business  all  ar 
ranged,  and  nothing  remains  except  to  fetch  the  man  to 
law." 

"That  is  all,"  said  the  other;  "and  the  sooner  it  is  over, 
the  better  for  me.  I  propose  to  take  a  long  journey.  I  am 
going  to  Europe."  They  had  slowly  drawn  nearer  to  Miss 
Ferryman's  cottage;  and  if  the  eyes  of  the  blind  girl  had 
possessed  the  power  of  vision,  she  could  have  seen  the  two 
standing  in  the  moonlight,  the  one  tall  and  burly  and  the 
other  tall  and  slender. 

"Going  to  Europe!"  said  Vanderlyn,  laughing.  "That  is 
a  mighty  nice  name  for  a  schoolhouse.  Why  didn't  you 
think  of  it  before?" 

"It  is  a  wide  schoolhouse  that  I  am  going  to,"  said  Wil 
liam  Wornum  with  a  sigh  that  was  echoed  by  the  fair  young 
girl  at  the  window,  "a  schoolhouse  in  which  I  hope  to  un 
learn  much  that  I  have  learned  and  to  forget  all  that  trou 
bles  me  here." 

Vanderlyn  was  struck  by  the  peculiarly  sad  tone  of  the 
schoolmaster.  "Well,  look  here.  By  George,  Wornum! 
You  can't  be  in  earnest,  can  you?  Ain't  this  rather  sud 
den?" 

The  answer  sent  a  thrill  through  the  bosom  of  the  young 
girl. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  this  is  a  pretty  come-off !"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"I  need  rest,"  continued  the  schoolmaster,  not  heeding 
the  exclamation  of  his  companion,  "and  there  is  no  rest  for 
me  here.  Repression  is  worse  than  death  to  me.  It  is  a 
sort  of  mental  executioner  that  is  all  the  time  whetting  his 
ax  right  before  your  eyes.  For  weeks  I  have  been  under 
going  the  tortures  of  a  prisoner  who  looks  through  the  bars 
of  his  dungeon  and  sees  the  gallows  upon  which  he  is  to  be 
hung  gradually  taking  shape.  I  tell  you,  it  is  terrible,  terri 
ble  !"  He  gave  such  emphasis  to  the  last  word  as  might  be 


Early  Literary  Efforts  379 

expected  from  a  man  in  the  deepest  distress,  and  Nora 
shrank  away  from  the  window  as  if  some  one  had  struck 
her  a  blow. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Vanderlyn  gently. 

"No/'  cried  the  other  passionately,  "you  can't  under 
stand  ;  you  know  nothing  about  it,  nothing  whatever.  If  you 
knew  it,  you  would  not  believe  it." 

Vanderlyn  laughed.  "Well,  I'm  a  mighty  good  guesser, 
Wornum.  But  what  you  want  to  pack  up  and  run  off  for 
is  more  than  I  can  make  out." 

"Let  me  put  a  case  to  you,"  replied  the  schoolmaster 
eagerly.  "I  want  to  appeal  to  your  judgment.  Suppose  a 
man,  unattractive  and  awkward,  is  fool  enough  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  woman  he  knows  will  never  regard  him  other 
than  a  friend.  He  is  thrown  with  her  every  day  until  finally 
his  love  becomes  maddening" — 

"How  did  you  know?"  asked  Vanderlyn  suddenly  in  a 
strangely  repressed  tone. 

"Know  what?" 

"Why,  about— about  this  man." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"O,  I  thought  you  might  have  seen  something.  Come, 
now,  Wornum,"  appealingly,  "don't  be  joking  me  on  that 
score.  I  know  I'm  an  ass,  but  that's  a  sore  subject  youjare 
on  now.  Let's  drop  it.  Are  your  crops  good  this  year  ?" 

Nora,  sitting  in  the  window,  smiled,  in  spite  of  her  own 
troubles,  at  the  ludicrous  tone  of  embarrassment  in  Vander- 
lyn's  words. 

"Why,  you  must  be  crazy,  Vanderlyn,"  said  the  school 
master,  astonished  beyond  measure. 

"You  may  be  shooting  at  a  mark  in  the  dark,  Wornum, 
but  you're  hitting  it  every  time  plumb  center." 

"Then  perhaps  the  target  may  sympathize  with  the  marks 
man.  Well,"  after  a  pause,  "suppose  the  case  is  like  I  tell 
you.  Would  you  advise  the  man  to  go  to  the  woman  and  tell 
her  what  a  fool  he  is?" 

"No,"  said  the  other  quietly ;  "I  can't  say  I  would." 

"What  would  you  advise  him  to  do,  then?" 

"I  think  your  remedy  is  the  best." 

"What  remedy?" 

"Why,  to  pack  up  and  go  off." 


380  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"O,  I  didn't"— 

"And  I  know  a  man  that  proposes  to  try  it,"  continued 
Vanderlyn,  ignoring  the  schoolmaster's  interruption. 

"And  pray  who  is  he?" 

"Your  Uncle  Dan." 

The  schoolmaster  laughed  a  little  at  this  blunt  confession. 
"Well,  Uncle  Dan,"  said  he,  "you'll  have  company.  But  in 
the  meantime  we'll  see  about  this  little  business  of  ours,  and 
then  we'll  talk  about  this  other  matter." 

"Yes,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "and  we  won't  be  long  about  it. 
When  does  the  Superior  Court  meet?" 

"The  first  Monday  in  next  September." 

"Then  the  man  we  want  will  be  on  hand." 

"I  trust  you  are  sure  of  this,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "1 
can't  stand  the  strain  much  longer." 

"O,  I'll  have  him  here ;  you  may  depend  on  that." 

"Very  well.    Good  night." 

"And  pleasant  dreams  ?"  asked  Vanderlyn  cheerily. 

"No,  no !"  said  the  schoolmaster  a  little  bitterly.  "We 
want  no  pleasant  unrealities." 

And  so  they  parted. 

The  young  girl  sat  in  the  window.  Her  grief  had  given 
way  to  elation;  and  while  the  tremulous  tide  of  stars  drift 
ed  westward  and  the  gray  dawn  began  to  weave  a  silver 
veil  over  the  face  of  the  moon,  she  wondered  if  she  were 
really  beloved  of  this  man,  the  schoolmaster. 

XIX 

The  Dawning  of  the  Day 

He  was  going  away !  A  bird  stirred  and  chirped  in  the 
hedge  of  Cherokee  roses  that  had  grown  up  and  hidden  the 
garden  fence.  The  dusky  silence  of  dawn  was  broken.  The 
wind  rose,  shook  its  invisible  wings,  and  sent  its  messen 
gers  abroad.  They  came  in  at  the  window  and  gently  played 
with  the  golden  hair  of  the  girl.  They  went  among  the 
trees  and  rustled  the  velvety  leaves  of  the  mulberry  tree  in 
the  garden  and  scattered  the  dead  rose  leaves  upon  the 
ground.  He  was  going  away!  The  yellow  moon  grew 
white  and  cold,  and  the  morning  star  glistened  a  moment 


Early  Literary  Efforts  381 

upon  the  blushing  bosom  of  the  east  and  disappeared.  A 
swallow  twittered  overhead,  and,  lo !  the  day  had  come. 

How  long  after  this  Nora  sat  at  the  window  she  did  not 
know,  but  she  was  aroused  by  the  shrill  voice  of  her  sister 
in  the  yard  below. 

"Well,  the  Lord  'a'  massy !  Look  at  dem  chickens !  I  'lay 
if  Mary  Ann  Pritchett  don't  keep  her  fowls  at  home,  I'll 
have  their  heads  in  the  pot."  And  then,  after  a  deal  of  in 
effectual  "shooing"  and  various  snappish  remarks :  "Ben, 
O  Ben !  Come  out  er  thar,  you  lazy  villain,  an'  take  a  rock 
an'  kill  them  chickens.  I  declar'  to  grashus  ef  it  ain't 
enough  to  aggervate  a  saint !  Fust  it's  the  niggers,  an'  then 
it's  the  chickens,  an'  then  it's  the  wimmen.  Thar  ain't  no 
peace  nowheres.  You,  Ben !"  in  a  higher  key.  "Why  in 
the  name  of  goodness  don't  you  cum  outer  thar  an'  kill  them 
chickens?  Mary  Ann  Pritchett's  old  roster's  tore  up  eve'y 
squar'  in  the  gyarden." 

But  by  the  time  Uncle  Ben  came  out,  chuckling  and  mak 
ing  excuses,  Jack  had  appeared  upon  the  scene  and  sent 
the  frightened  fowls  in  every  direction. 

"Ef  it  wuzzent  fer  that  boy,"  Miss  Jane  remarked  com 
placently,  "the  whole  blessed  place  would  go  to  rack  and 
ruin." 

"Mars  Jack  mighty  peart,  dat's  a  fact,"  assented  Uncle 
Ben  with  unction. 

"Don't  come  a-talkin'  to  me,"  said  Miss  Jane  severely. 
"Ef  you'd  'a'  bin  wuth  your  salt,  them  chickens  wouldn't  'a' 
scratched  up  the  whole  place." 

"Why,  Mistiss,  how  you  'spec'  I  gwineter  keep  dem  chick 
ens  out  'fo'  day?  Hit  'pears  unto  me  dat  dey  roosted  out 
dar  'mong  de  pea  vines.  Eolks  ain't  got  no  bizness  wid 
chickens  'less  dey  takes  an'  clips  der  wings.  Dat's  w'at  I 
say,  an'  dat's  w'at  I'll  stick  unto." 

"I  dessay,"  replied  Miss  Jane  sarcastically,  "frum  the 
way  you  git  aroun'  lately  I  reckon  somebody's  clipped  your 
wings." 

"Mistiss,  you's  one  sight.  Nobody  ain't  been  foolin'  'long 
er  me,  an'  dey  ain't  gwineter,  'cepen  a  spasm  er  sumpin 
ketches  me  in  de  middle  er  de  road." 

"Where  you  goin'  to  loaf  at  to-day  besides  Floyd's  cor 
ner?" 


382  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Mars  Daniel  Vanderlyn  say  he  want  me  fer  to  go  wid 
him/' 

"An5  where's  he  goin'?  It  looks  to  me  that  he'd  had 
plenty  er  traipsin'  roun'." 

"I  dunno'm.  He  des  say  he  want  me  fer  to  go  'long  er 
him,  an*  I  tole  him  I'd  ax  you." 

"O,  you  kin  go/'  said  Miss  Jane  in  a  relieved  tone.  "You 
kin  go.  I  don't  want  you  piddlin'  roun'  here  worryin'  the 
life  outer  me." 

"You  ain't  heerd  the  news,  is  you,  Mistiss?"  inquired 
Uncle  Ben,  as  if  to  change  the  subject. 

"What  news?" 

"  'Bout  Mars  Willium  gwine  to  Yurup." 

"Gwine  where?" 

"Dat's  what  I  hears.    Gwine  ter  Yurup." 

"Who  was  tellin'you?" 

Uncle  Ben  hesitated.  "I  wuz  stirrin'  up  de  roots  ter  dem 
dar  mornin'-glories  yistiddy,  an'  I  hear  Mars  William  tell 
young  Mistess  dat  he  wuz  gwine  'way." 

"What  else  did  you  hear?"  asked  Miss  Jane,  her  suspi 
cions  aroused  and  her  curiosity  whetted. 

Nora,  sitting  in  the  window,  shrunk  back,  pale  and  fright 
ened.  O,  if  she  could  but  raise  her  finger  at  the  garrulous 
old  negro !  But  Ben  was  prudent.  He  worshiped  his  young 
mistress,  and  he  would  have  toiled  day  and  night  to  have 
spared  her  one  pang. 

"I  dunno'm,"  he  said  presently.  "Dey  talked  right  smart- 
ually,  an'  den  Mars  Willium  he  says  he  want  some  res'  an' 
dat  he  wuz  gwine  away." 

Nora  could  have  hugged  the  old  man.  From  that  day  he 
never  wanted  for  anything  that  she  could  supply ;  and  upon 
one  occasion,  after  calling  his  attention  to  the  conversation 
which  I  have  just  chronicled,  she  said:  "I  am  under  obli 
gations  to  you,  Uncle  Ben." 

He  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  "Dey  don't  git  fur  ahead  er 
de  ole  nigger,  sissy" — he  always  addressed  her  as  "sissy" — 
"an*  when  dey  does,  dey  gotter  git  up  'fo'  de  sun  done  in 
sight,  sho's  youer  born/' 

This  was  long  afterwards.  For  the  present  Miss  Jane 
was  interested  in  the  intention  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  she 
continued  her  cross-examination  of  Uncle  Ben, 


Early  Literary  Efforts  383 

"You  say  you  heard  him  tell  your  Miss  Nora  he  was 
goin'  away?" 

"Yes'm.  Dat's  w'at  he  said.  He  spoked  it  right  out  loud. 
Hit  sorter  soun'  like  he  wuz  sorry,  and  it  sorter  soun'  like 
he  wuzzent." 

"What'd  Nora  say?" 

"I  dunno'm.  I  wuz  so  flurried  when  I  hear  dat  Marse 
Willium  was  gwineter  sail  out  an'  lef  us  dat  I  disremembers 
w'at  passed  arterwards." 

There  wasn't  much  to  be  got  out  of  Ben,  but  Miss  Jane 
had  heard  enough  to  cause  her  to  put  on  her  "thinking  cap," 
as  she  expressed  it.  First  she  went  to  Nora. 

"What's  all  this  stuff  'bout  William  Wornum  going 
away  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sister.  He  merely  told  me  he  was 
going." 

"Didn't  he  say  why?" 

"He  said  he  needed  rest ;  that  was  all." 

"Rest,  fiddlesticks !  He  gits  more  rest  now  than  a  settin' 
hen.  He  needs  work,  that's  what  he  needs.  If  he'd  go  out 
into  the  woods  an*  split  five  hunderd  rails  a  day  fer  forty 
days,  he  wouldn't  come  a-talkin'  about  rest.  My  goodness ! 
How  kin  a  man  rest  when  he  don't  work?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know." 

Just  then  she  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  schoolmaster 
himself  and  hurried  downstairs  to  meet  him.  Miss  Jane 
was  not  a  woman  to  mince  matters,  and  she  had  upon  her 
tongue's  end  a  very  sharp  lecture  for  William  Wornum's 
benefit;  but  it  was  forgotten  as  soon  as  her  keen  eye  rested 
upon  his  pale,  careworn  face.  He  seemed  to  have  grown 
old  in  a  night.  He  had  seated  himself  in  the  parlor  with 
a  book;  but  he  rose  and  smiled  as  Miss  Jane  entered — but 
such  a  weary  ghost  of  a  smile ! 

"What  in  the  name  of  gracious  is  the  matter  with  you, 
William?" 

^"With  me,  Miss  Jane?  If  there  is  anything  the  matter 
with  me,  I  have  yet  to  be  notified  of  the  fact.  What  does 
it  appear  like  to  you  ?" 

"Why,  you  look  like  a  man  that  had  the  fever  an'  ager  a 
year." 

"Likely  enough,"  he  said  simply;  "likely  enough,"  he  re- 


384  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

peated  musingly.  "I  did  feel  a  little  chilly  yesterday  and 
last  night/' 

"Well,  you  better  go  to  bed  right  now,  an*  I'll  make  you 
some  red-pepper  tea/' 

"No,"  he  replied ;  "a  little  walk  in  the  sun  will  put  me  to 
rights.  I  have  work  to  do." 

"What's  this  about  your  going  away,  William?"  asked 
Miss  Jane. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  "except  that  I  must  have  rest 
and  a  change.  I  can't  stand  this  strain  much  longer/' 

"Miss  Jane  looked  at  him  steadily.  "William  Wornum, 
ef  it  wuzzent  jes'  for  manners'  sake,  I'd  say  you  wuz  a  start 
natural  fool." 

"Your  diagnosis  would  be  the  correct  one,  Miss  Jane ;  but 
it  is  so  easy  to  be  a  fool  that  I  have  forgotten  whether  it  is 
a  habit  or  a  disease.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  however,  it  is 
a  disease — at  least  in  my  case/' 

Something  in  his  own  mind  or  something  in  the  appear 
ance  of  Miss  Jane  as  she  stood  regarding  him  with  a  frown 
on  her  face  must  have  amused  him,  for  he  laughed  heartily, 
somewhat  after  the  old  fashion,  and  while  he  was  laughing 
Nora  came  in.  She  was  pale ;  but  the  schoolmaster,  looking 
up,  thought  her  more  beautiful  than  ever.  She  was  no 
longer  a  girl ;  she  was  a  woman,  and  she  seemed  to  exult 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  fact. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Wornum.  Mrs.  Dusenberry  says  it 
is  a  sign  of  bad  luck  for  one  to  laugh  before  breakfast." 

"Good  morning,  Nora.  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Dusenberry  is 
about  right.  But  one  who  has  no  luck — good,  bad,  or  indif 
ferent — can  very  well  afford  to  laugh,  even  before  the  sun 
is  up.  It  has  a  tendency,  I  find,  to  give  an  appetite.  I  have 
seen  it  stated  that  a  man  may  harden  his  muscles  and  im 
prove  his  health  by  merely  imagining  that  he  practices  with 
dumb-bells  every  morning.  If  this  be  true — and  I  have  no 
doubt  it  is — I  can  laugh  to  my  heart's  content  and  still 
imagine  I  am  lucky."  His  old  manner  seemed  to  have  come 
back  to  him.  "There  is  no  want,"  he  continued  in  the  half- 
frivolous,  half-humorous,  and  wholly  characteristic  vein 
that  was  at  once  the  puzzle  and  the  delight  of  his  friends, 
"there  is  no  want,"  he  continued,  "that  the  imagination  can 
not  supply.  People  who  are  starving  sit  down  in  their 


Early  Literary  Efforts  385 

dreams  to  tables  loaded  with  food.  Thirst  is  quenched,  love 
satisfied,  and  even  grief  becomes  dumb." 

"O,  but  those  are  dreams,  Mr.  Wornum !"  said  Nora. 

"True.  But  it  is  only  in  the  wide,  dim  halls  of  sleep  that 
the  unfettered  mind  can  render  itself  wholly  to  the  gro 
tesque  spell  of  the  imagination.  I  have  sometimes  thought," 
he  went  on  with  a  sigh,  "that  sleep  is  the  soul's  vacation. 
All  day  long  it  frets  and  pines  for  freedom,  until  finally  sleep 
unbars  the  prison  door." 

"It's  a  mercy,"  remarked  Miss  Jane  with  considerable 
emphasis,  "that  the  asylum  ain't  far  from  here." 

"I  am  told,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  it  is  a  very  quiet  place, 
a  place  where  people  attend  strictly  to  their  own  business 
and  never  interfere  with  each  other.  At  any  rate,  they 
do  have  their  own  private  reasons  for  it,  and  under  the  cir 
cumstances  they  are  to  be  excused." 

"You  speak  as  one  who  had  beheld  visions,  Mr.  Wor 
num,"  said  Nora. 

"Aye,  and  dreamed  dreams,"  he  answered.  "Little  chil 
dren  smile  in  their  sleep.  As  they  grow  older  they  cry  out. 
I  do  not  know  of  anything  more  fatal  to  content  than  knowl 
edge  and  experience.  They  are  conspirators  against  happi 
ness.  Where  they  make  one  philosopher  they  educate  ten 
fools  to  harass  him,  and  the  odds  are  that  even  the  philos 
opher  will  degenerate  into  a  mountebank." 

"You  are  quite  a  cynic  to-day,  Mr.  Wornum." 

The  schoolmaster  was  puzzled  at  the  tone  of  exultation 
that  seemed  to  ring  and  quiver  in  Nora's  voice.  It  was  so 
much  at  variance  with  the  womanly  composure  with  which 
she  seemed  suddenly  to  have  clothed  herself.  He  paused  a 
moment  to  study  her  face  and  then  went  on :  "A  cynic  is 
one  who  tells  disagreeable  truths.  I  think  I  have  said 
nothing  disagreeable." 

"Stuff,  William  Wornum!"  said  Miss  Jane  vigorously. 
"Youer  gittin'  light-headed.  What  you  want  is  er  cup  of 
pepper  tea,  an'  you  want  it  hot.  The  quicker  you  git  to  bed, 
the  better.  You'll  need  right  smart  rest  ere  you  git  to 
Yurup." 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  want  to  go  out  into  the  sunshine  and 
stretch  myself." 

25 


386  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Well,  we're  not  going  to  wait  breakfast  for  you,  I  can 
tell  you  that,"  Miss  Jane  remarked. 

"I  am  not  suffering  with  hunger/'  he  replied  and  went 
out. 

At  the  gate  he  met  Vanderlyn,  whose  face  wore  a  very 
serious  expression. 

"I  was  just  coming  after  you,  Wornum.  Look  at  these." 
He  held  up  a  handful  of  charred  lightwood  splinters. 

"Well?" 

"I  found  them  under  the  corner  of  my  shop.  They  are 
warm  yet." 

"What  does  it  mean?"  asked  the  schoolmaster. 

"It  means,"  said  Vanderlyn  quietly,  "that  if  they  had  kept 
on  burning,  the  probability  is  you  would  have  been  raking 
about  in  the  ashes  to  discover  my  bones." 

"Why,  this  is  infamous !"  exclaimed  the  schoolmaster  ex 
citedly.  "What  can  it  mean?" 

"It  means,"  said  the  other,  "that  I  have  a  friend  who  is 
very  attentive.  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  that  if  Jim  Ash- 
field  would  call  and  leave  his  card,  this" — holding  up  the 
splinters — "would  be  about  the  size  of  it." 


Is  the  World  So  Wide? 

There  had  undoubtedly  been  an  attempt  to  fire  Vander- 
lyn's  shop.  Lightwood  splinters  had  been  placed  under  his 
bedroom,  which  was  in  the  rear  of  the  building,  and  these 
had  been  fired  by  the  incendiary.  It  was  only  by  the  merest 
accident  that  the  attempt  was  not  successful.  The  kindling 
had  been  hastily  and,  therefore,  clumsily  arranged,  and  to 
this  was  due  the  fact  that  the  flames  which  had  charred  the 
incendiary's  fuse  were  not  communicated  to  the  old  wooden 
structure.  The  two  men  examined  the  place  and  its  sur 
roundings  carefully  and  compared  notes. 

" Why  do  you  think  Ashfield  is  the  man  ?"  said  the  school 
master  presently. 

"It  is  merely  a  suspicion,"  answered  the  other.  "I  have 
suspected  the  man  ever  since  I  jerked  him  out  of  that 
crowd  in  Floyd's  bar.  I  think  he  owes  me  a  grudge  for  that. 
It  may  be  that  he  has  got  an  inkling  of  my  business  here,  but 


Early  Literary  Efforts  387 

that  doesn't  seem  reasonable,  and  yet,"  Vanderlyn  continued 
thoughtfully,  "he  is  a  very  shrewd  man." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  the  schoolmaster,  "in  your  talk 
with  him  the  night  you  took  him  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
boys  you  let  fall  some  hint" — 

"No,"  said  Vanderlyn  quickly,  "I  was  very  careful.  I 
talked  very  little.  I  simply  let  him  tell  his  own  story  in  his 
own  way.  I  did  not  so  much  as  cross-examine  him.  I  led 
him  far  enough  to  make  sure  I  was  not  mistaken,  and  then 
I  left  him.  Maybe  I  do  him  injustice;  but,  somehow  or 
other,  I  thought  of  him  as  soon  as  I  awoke  and  found  my 
room  full  of  smoke." 

"If  it  is  his  work,"  remarked  William  Wornum,  "you 
have  gained  a  point." 

"How?" 

"Why,  you  know  he  can't  be  far  away." 

"O,  I'm  sure  of  him,  anyway.  He  will  be  forthcoming," 
said  Vanderlyn  confidently. 

"That  remains  to  be  seen." 

"Well,  I  think  myself,"  laughing  a  little,  "that  the  sooner 
we  make  sure  of  the  matter,  the  better." 

"If  this  is  his  game,"  said  the  schoolmaster  gravely,  "you 
must  proceed  at  once.  He  is  dangerous.  It  won't  do  to  be 
sleeping  over  a  matter  like  this,"  looking  curiously  at  the 
spot  where  the  feeble  flames,  seeking  something  to  devour, 
had  left  the  black  trace  of  their  fiery  tongues  upon  the  cor 
ner  of  the  house.  "But,  after  all,"  he  continued,  "I  am  al 
most  afraid  to  believe  it  is  he." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  scared  about  that,  Wornum. 
Whether  it's  him  or  not,  I  am  getting  tired  of  waiting  for 
developments.  We  might  as  well  be  on  the  safe  side  by 
hurrying  through  with  the  whole  business." 

As  the  two  men  stood  talking  together  Kate  Underwood 
passed  along  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  The  school 
mistress  clung  fondly  to  most  of  her  New  England  habits, 
and  among  these  was  a  love  for  open-air  exercise.  She 
would  get  up  between  four  and  five  o'clock  in  the  summer 
time  and  make  long  excursions  through  the  fields  and  over 
the  hills  that  intervened  between  Rockville  and  the  wilder 
ness  of  great  woods  that  lay  beyond.  This  habit  of  hers 
astonished  the  easy-going  inhabitants  at  first  and  then 


388  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

amused  them ;  but  they  finally  became  accustomed  to  what 
they  were  pleased  to  term  the  "eccentricities"  of  the  beauti 
ful  Yankee  woman,  and  some  of  them  finally  went  so  far  as 
to  allow  their  daughters  to  accompany  her,  which  was  quite 
a  concession  on  the  part  of  these  sturdy  citizens,  whose 
opposition  to  utilitarianism  in  all  its  forms  was  antique  in 
its  aggressiveness,  albeit  it  went  under  the  name  and  in  the 
guise  of  conservatism.  There  was  Bagley.  Bagley  would 
have  told  you,  without  waiting  even  for  the  mild  formality 
of  a  nod  or  a  wink,  that  "these  dad-blamed  newfangled 
notions  they  er  gittin'  up  is  a-ruinin'  the  country  teetotally." 

"I'm  danged,"  he  used  to  remark  to  the  boys  who  gath 
ered  in  the  piazza  of  the  tavern  Sunday  afternoons,  "I'm 
danged  ef  'tain't  gittin'  so  a  feller  don't  know  what's  a-gwine- 
ter  turn  up.  We're  havin'  something  new  ever'  day,  an* 
the  world  is  a-populatin'  more  and  more ;  but  I  disremember 
when  we  wuz  wuss  off — I  does,  gents,  for  a  solid  fac'.  I 
leave  it  to  John  Bell  ef  these  railroads  ain't  a-bustin*  me  up. 
I  useter  haul  folks  plum'  to  Macon,  but  now  I'll  be  dad- 
blamed  ef  I  kin  git  a  passenger  to  Golyin's  Crossin'.  You 
kin  whoop  up  your  steam  an'  your  enventions,  gents,  but 
I'll  jes*  be  dad- fetched  ef  money  don't  git  sca'cer  ever'  day. 
Look  at  cotton ;  look  wher'  it's  gone  to." 

Bagley,  you  perceive,  was  conservative;  and,  in  a  some 
what  modified  form,  his  conservatism  was  typical.  But  all 
this  had  no  place  in  the  thoughts  of  the  schoolmistress  as  she 
walked  briskly  past  the  two  men,  nodding  and  smiling  to 
each.  Vanderlyn  broke  abruptly  away  from  the  schoolmas 
ter,  walked  across  the  street,  and  joined  the  fair  Katherine. 

"You  are  out  early,"  said  Vanderlyn. 

"O  no;  I  overslept  myself  this  morning.  I  am  rather 
late.  But,  pray,"  glancing  at  the  pine  splinters  and  laughing 
merrily,  "what  is  that  you  have  got?" 

Vanderlyn  looked  at  his  smutty  hand,  which  still  held  the 
kindling,  and  blushed  like  a  girl.  The  schoolmistress  had 
never  seen  him  so  embarrassed.  He  had  forgotten  that  he 
still  held  them  in  his  hand. 

"O,  these?  These  are  nothing  but  some  little  pieces  of 
lightwood  I  picked  up." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Miss  Underwood  in  a  serio-comic 
tone,  "that  lightwood  splinters  properly  steeped  in  whisky 


Early  Literary  Efforts  389 

make  an  excellent  tonic.  Do  they  have  to  be  burned,  Mr. 
Vanderlyn?  I  should  think  that  fire  would  be  fatal  to  the 
medicinal  virtues  of  the  pine." 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  Miss  Underwood,"  he 
said,  looking  straight  into  the  depths  of  her  sparkling  eyes. 
"I  found  them  under  my  shop.  Some  one  has  complimented 
me  by  endeavoring  to  burn  my  little  effects  and  me  along 
with  them." 

The  schoolmistress  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet.  "The 
black-hearted  wretch !"  she  cried,  clutching  her  hands  nerv 
ously.  "O,  how  can  any  one  be  so  cruel  ?  Do  you  know  who 
it  was?" 

"Why,  no,  not  precisely,"  answered  Vanderlyn,  controll 
ing  with  an  effort  the  embarrassment  which  her  tone  and 
manner  had  occasioned.  "I  couldn't  come  right  out  and  say 
for  certain  who  made  the  attempt,  but  I  reckon  I  could  come 
within  one  of  it.  There  is  but  one  man  in  the  wide  world 
who  could  have  the  motive  for  such  a  crime." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  schoolmistress  eagerly. 

"He,"  replied  Vanderlyn,  "is  my  friend  Jim  Ashfield." 

"I  knew  it !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  knew  it !  I  saw  him  this 
morning.  He  is  the  man;  he  and  no  other.  I  shuddered 
when  he  passed  me." 

"If  he  is  the  man,"  said  Vanderlyn,  with  something  like 
a  sigh  of  relief,  "the  occurrence  is  a  fortunate  one  for  me. 
The  problem  that  has  been  worrying  me,  and  that  I  told  you 
about,  has  solved  itself.  But  it  will  be  a  great  trial  to  me; 
and  after  it  is  all  over,  my  only  remedy  is  to  go  away.  Wor- 
num  and  myself  have  arranged  for  a  trip  to  Europe." 

She  had  stopped  when  he  told  her  of  the  attempt  to  burn 
the  house;  and  the  two  now  stood  on  the  sidewalk,  she  self- 
poised  and  eager,  swinging  her  dainty  parasol,  and  he  calm 
and  cool,  leaning  against  an  elm  tree.  Waiting  for  her  to 
speak,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face.  She  was  looking  away 
to  the  west,  where  numberless  snow-white  cloud  ships  were 
sailing  the  upper  seas.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  have  lost 
interest  in  the  attempt  of  the  would-be  incendiary ;  and  but 
for  a  certain  pensive  expression,  vague  and  yet  tangible,  her 
features  would  have  struck  Vanderlyn  as  cold  and  naughty. 

"We  leave  in  September,"  he  continued,  more  for  the 
purpose  of  continuing  the  conversation  than  anything  else. 


390  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Wornum  needs  a  change,  and  so  do  I.  Nothing  cures 
restlessness  like  moving  from  post  to  pillar." 

Kate  Underwood  waved  her  parasol  in  the  air  as  though 
she  would  thereby  destroy  an  unpleasant  vision.  "The 
world  is  a  wide  world,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said  after  a 
little.  "It  is  a  pity." 

"What  is  a  pity,  Miss  Underwood?" 

"That  the  world  should  be  so  wide." 

"It  is  none  too  wide  for  those  who  try  to  escape  from 
their  troubles,"  he  answered. 

"People  who  are  brave  and  unselfish  generally  face  their 
troubles.  O,  if  I  were  a  man !"  she  exclaimed  vehemently. 

"You  would  do  as  men  do,  Miss  Underwood.  There  are 
some  troubles,"  he  said  gently,  "that  the  bravest  men  dare 
not  face." 

"I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  your  troubles  are  alt 
arranged  upon  a  magnificent  scale.  I  thought  you  had 
solved  the  problem  that  had  been  perplexing  you  of  late." 

"It  isn't  that.  If  I  have  acted  a  lie,  it  has  been  for  the 
sake  of  others.  Circumstances  have  justified  me.  My  con 
science  is  clear.  I  would  cheerfully  play  the  part  over  again. 
It  is  not  that." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  impolite  for  me  to  question  you," 
she  said,  smiling  a  little.  "You  have  heard  about  the  native 
curiosity  of  women." 

"It  would  not  be  impolite,"  he  made  answer. 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?"  she  asked  almost  eagerly. 

"If  the  circumstances  were  different,"  he  answered  with 
a  smile,  a  sad  smile  as  she  thought,  "if  Providence  had  been 
a  little  kinder,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  tell  you  fully  and 
freely.  As  matters  stand,  you  of  all  women  should  be  the 
last  to  know."  Gazing  upon  her,  he  saw  the  red  blood  rise 
to  her  face  and  flow  away  again ;  and,  blundering,  as  all  men 
do,  he  did  not  even  suspect  that  he  had  already  told  her  all 
she  desired  to  know. 

"Am  I,  then,  so  unsympathetic  as  to  be  proscribed?"  she 
asked,  tossing  her  head  prettily  in  order  the  more  effectually 
to  conceal  her  embarrassment ;  and  then  with  a  little  coquet 
tish  air  that  seemed  absolutely  ravishing  to  the  great  tall 
man  beside  her:  "T  should  like  very  much  to  be  told.  I 


Early  Literary  Efforts  391 

know  it  must  be  something  very  mysterious  and  very  ro 
mantic,  or  you  wouldn't  hesitate  so." 

"O,  I'm  not  hesitating/'  he  answered,  laughing  at  the 
idea.  "There  is  nothing  to  hesitate  about.  I  cannot  tell 
you." 

"You  will  change  your  mind,  Mr.  Vanderlyn." 

"When  I  do,  Miss  Underwood,  you  will  be  the  first  to 
know — and  the  last  too,  for  that  matter." 

"That  would  be  nice/'  she  rejoined,  "to  have  your  mys 
terious  secret  all  to  myself."  Her  tone  and  manner  were 
altogether  foreign  to  her,  and  it  puzzled  him. 

"Mind  that  man,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  she  said.  "He  is  dan 
gerous.  The  sooner  you  dispose  of  him,  the  better." 

"Trust  me  for  that/'  he  said  lightly  and  went  his  way. 

XXI 

Upon  reaching  her  room,  Miss  Kate  Underwood  acted 
somewhat  singularly — that  is  to  say,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  women.  She  snatched  her  bonnet  from  her 
head,  flung  it  on  a  chair,  strode  in  front  of  her  mirror,  and 
looked  at  the  pleasing  reflection  of  herself  long  and  seri 
ously.  Then  she  flushed  and  fell  to  laughing.  The  whole 
proceeding  was  impromptu  and  to  a  spectator  would  prob 
ably  have  been  entertaining,  but  not  instructive;  for  who 
can  understand  a  beautiful  woman?  Who  can  study  her 
peculiarities  with  profit?  The  student  becomes  a  lover  and 
the  lover  a  fool.  There  were  no  students  of  human  nature 
at  hand,  however,  to  take  note  of  the  remarkable  antics  of 
Kate  Underwood  upon  this  particular  occasion,  else  they 
had  been  sorely  puzzled.  Her  fit  of  hilarity  may  have  been 
hysterical ;  it  may  have  proceeded  from  that  peculiar  method 
of  self-criticism  which  in  cultivated  people  takes  the  shape 
of  ridicule.  It  is  one  of  the  mental  phenomena  which  escape 
the  analysis  of  the  philosophers,  for  the  reason,  in  all  prob 
ability,  that  the  philosophers  do  not  trouble  themselves  to 
investigate  matters  that  never  attract  their  attention.  It  is 
impossible,  therefore,  to  say  whether  the  schoolmistress  was 
really  amused  or  whether  her  laughter  was  the  result  of  that 
inner  conflict  between  trouble  on  the  one  hand  and  self- 
ridicule  on  the  other,  a  conflict  that  is  experienced  by  the 
best  of  us,  I  fancy,  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime.  Howbeit, 


392  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

her  hilarity  was  short-lived.  Recovering  herself,  she  gazed 
once  more  into  the  mirror  and  raised  her  forefinger  warn- 
ingly  to  the  image  she  saw  there.  It  appeared  that  the  image 
had  also  grown  grave  and  suddenly  prudent,  for  its  fore 
finger  was  also  raised  warningly. 

"If  I  were  as  old  as  you,"  said  Miss  Underwood  to  the 
reflection  of  herself,  "I  wouldn't  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
Here  you  are  getting  along  in  years,  and  yet  you  can't  speak 
to  Somebody — no,  and  you  can't  pass  Somebody  on  the 
street  without  blushing  until  your  face  is  afire.  And  people 
call  you  a  discreet  woman!  What  are  you  to  Somebody, 
and  what  is  Somebody  to  you?  If  I  were  you,  I  would  be 
have  myself.  That  is  the  least  you  can  do.  Do  you  under 
stand?  Behave  yourself.  That  is  my  advice." 

And  then,  strange  to  relate,  Miss  Underwood  changed 
her  tactics.  Instead  of  laughing,  she  flung  herself  in  a 
chair,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  cried  as  though 
her  heart  would  break.  A  little  child  she  had  frequently 
made  much  of  strayed  into  the  room,  looked  wonderingly  a 
moment  at  the  woman  in  tears,  and  then  spoke  in  baby 
fashion :  "N-o-w  !  Somebody  done  w'ip  my  Taty.  Nasty, 
mean  somebody.  Menie  w'ip  um  back  adin,  me  will." 
Then  after  a  pause:  "Ef  my  Taty  ty,  me  ty  too,"  where 
upon  the  little  toddler  set  up  a  most  resonant  yell  and  re 
fused  to  be  comforted  until  her  "Taty"  took  her  to  her 
bosom,  and  the  two,  the  woman  and  the  little  child,  mingled 
their  tears  together. 

Meanwhile  Vanderlyn,  leaving  the  fair  Katherine  at  the 
hotel,  walked  toward  the  old  church.  He  had  not  proceeded 
far  before  he  heard  some  one  calling  him.  Pausing  and 
looking  around,  he  saw  Tiny  Padgett  sauntering  toward 
him,  swinging  a  rattan  cane. 

"Morning,  Van !"  exclaimed  the  young  man  heartily. 
"What's  up?  You  look  as  grim  as  a  North  Carolina  bull- 
bat." 

"Exercise,"  said  the  other.  "I  have  to  stretch  myself 
after  being  cramped  up  in  bed  all  night.  What  pulls  you 
out  so  early?" 

Padgett  laughed.  "Business,  as  well  as  inclination,"  he 
answered.  I  am  not  up  as  early  as  you  might  suppose.  I 
haven't  been  to  bed." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  393 

"What  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"O,  playing  the  old  Harry.  Knocking  around  among  the 
boys,  drinking,  carousing,  'rastling  with  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  and  getting  the  worst  of  it."  There  was  a 
touch  of  sadness  rather  than  of  recklessness  in  the  emphasis 
with  which  he  went  over  the  catalogue.  "But,  after  all," 
he  continued  with  a  sigh,  "I  came  out  about  even.  We 
roped  in  that  artist,  the  new  fellow  who  has  come  here  to 
take  daguerreotypes." 

"Roped  him  in?" 

"Rather.  He  is  a  very  nice  man.  He  has  a  romantic 
name  and  a  very  romantic  appearance.  He  is  an  exceedingly 
nice  man.  I  reckon  if  you  were  to  go  a  ten  days'  journey 
you  wouldn't  find  a  nicer  man.  And  smart — you  wouldn't 
hardly  believe  how  smart  he  is  unless  he  told  you  himself." 
Vanderlyn  had  become  accustomed  to  the  irony  which  Pad 
gett  used,  with  as  much  effect  against  his  own  weaknesses 
as  against  those  of  other  people,  and  remained  silent.  "You 
think  I  am  joking,"  Padgett  continued  after  a  little  pause, 
"but  I  am  not.  O  no !  How  could  I  joke  about  a  man 
named  Claude  Wellington?  And  even  if  he  was  not  named 
Wellington,  he  is  from  New  York,  which  amounts  to  the 
same  thing.  He  hadn't  been  in  town  twenty-four  hours  be 
fore  he  found  his  way  to  Floyd's,  and  then  he  wanted  to 
tackle  somebody  at  poker.  He  told  us  all  about  how  he  took 
the  money  of  the  New  York  and  Philadelphia  chaps,  and 
then  he  said  if  we  didn't  know  the  game  he  would  teach  us. 
I  took  a  few  lessons  under  him,  and  it  just  cost  him  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars." 

"That  is  considerable,"  was  Vanderlyn's  curt  comment. 

"Yes,"  said  Tiny,  "I  not  only  got  his  money,  but  all  his 
history.  He  is  a  mad  wag.  He  and  Miss  Kate  Underwood 
were  children  together  and  grew  up  together.  I  rather  think 
he  is  inclined  to  be  sweet  on  her  still." 

"The  d — d  scoundrel !"  exclaimed  Vanderlyn  passionately. 
"Did  he  talk  about  her  in  a  barroom?" 

"He  did  but  sing  her  praises,  my  lord,"  said  the  other  in 
a  tragic  tone,  "and  his  voice  was  most  enchanting.  Ah! 
Vanderlyn,"  he  continued,  growing  serious,  "you  will  have 
to  crawl  into  my  boat,  after  all.  If  women  are  all  alike — 


394  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

and  they  are  when  it  comes  to  that — you  will  have  to  secure 
passage  with  me.  It  is  better  than  floundering  about  in  the 
deep  sea.  You  would  make  a  famous  vagabond.  If  I  had 
your  height  and  breadth,  I  should  become  famous  in  ten 
counties.  To  be  a  successful  loafer  requires  as  many  spe 
cial  gifts  as  those  which  go  to  make  an  orator.  But,  above 
all,  one  must  have  the  pressure.  Pressure  is  what  catches 
the  crowd:  it  is  everything." 

Vanderlyn  strode  onward  without  a  word,  and  Padgett 
walked  by  his  side.  Presently  the  two  plunged  into  the 
woods  that  skirted  the  western  portion  of  the  town  and 
quickly  lost  themselves  in  the  cool  green  hollows  that  nature 
had  built.  They  had  left  the  world  behind  them.  Here  the 
birds  sang,  and  the  breezes  blew.  The  pines  gave  their  sub 
tle  aroma  to  the  winds,  that  seemed  to  breathe  and  faint  and 
breathe  again,  lapping  the  sterile  red  hills  that  bordered  the 
forest  and  pouring  its  incense  through  all  the  myriad  chan 
nels  of  the  air. 

"You  see,"  said  Padgett  with  the  air  and  authority  of  one 
who  was  about  to  elucidate  a  difficult  problem,  "you  see, 
women  are  mighty  curious.  They  are  the  proud  possessors 
of  what  old  Uncle  Ben  calls  mulishness.  They  know  they 
are  mulish,  and  they  appear  to  be  glad  of  it.  I  never  saw 
but  one  woman  in  my  life  that  was  true  to  her  impulses, 
and  she,"  he  continued  with  a  sigh,  "had  no  opportunity  of 
observing  the  hypocrisy  that  both  men  and  women  have  to 
meet  and  match,  if  they  can.  A  fellow  like  me,  who  has 
nothing  to  lose  and  nothing  to  gain  by  flattering  any  of 
them,  can  afford  to  sit  off  and  study  them  as  people  study  a 
puzzle.  It  is  a  fine  employment.  The  only  objection  is  that 
it  gives  youth  a  sort  of  premature  experience;  but,  after  all, 
it  is  a  sort  of  experience  that  precept  can  never  hope  to 
compass." 

"Did  you  say  his  name  was  Wellington?"  inquired  Van 
derlyn.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  not  heard  the  fine  oral 
essay  which  Padgett  had  been  delivering. 

"I  don't  remember  what  you  are  talking  about,"  answered 
Tiny,  seized  by  a  spirit  of  deviltry. 

"This  man  Wellington.    Who  did  you  say  he  was  ?" 

"O,  you  are  speaking  of  the  duke.     Yes,  I  understand. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  395 

Well,  of  course  you  know  all  about  him.  He  had  enough  of 
Waterloo  to  give  Napoleon  a  slice.  There  are  more  Napo 
leons  than  Wellingtons.  At  any  rate,  the  most  of  us  have 
a  little  private  Waterloo  of  our  own.  But  it  is  a  great  pity 
that  Wellington  had  to  depend  on  Blucher.  I  am  going  to 
name  my  eldest  grandchild  Blucher." 

"He  loved  her  in  her  youth/'  said  Vanderlyn  contempla 
tively.  "He  must  be  a  happy  man." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Padgett,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 
"He  loved  her  passing  well — better  than  Napoleon  loved 
Josephine.  But  look  here,  old  man.  Don't  you  think  you're 
running  history  a  little  heavy?" 

"I  think  I  hear  some  one  walking,"  said  Vanderlyn. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be  certain  before  you  prefer  charges. 
Many  a  mouse  has  got  credit  for  what  the  moths  have 
done." 

|Don't  you  hear  somebody  walking?"  asked  the  other. 

"I  saw  some  one  walking,"  replied  Padgett,  "and  to  that 
extent  mine  eyes  confirm  mine  ears." 

"The  liquor  you  drank  last  night  seems  to  last,"  said  Van 
derlyn  dryly. 

"It  won't  last  until  Christmas,"  responded  the  other,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  seized  by  the  imp  of  the  perverse.  "But 
it  will  outlast  a  man's  affections  and  a  woman's  memory. 
You  mustn't  judge  liquor  by  its  results.  You  must —  But 
where  the  devil  did  that  fellow  go?" 

"Which  fellow?" 

"Why,  the  party  who  was  coming  down  the  blind  path 
there." 

Vanderlyn  was  reclining  against  a  tall  pine  and  had  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  turn  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
noise  he  had  heard.  Before  either  one  of  them  had  an  op 
portunity  to  grow  curious  over  the  disappearance  of  the 
man  Padgett  had  seen,  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  was  heard, 
and  the  ball  tore  through  the  bark  within  half  an  inch  of 
Vanderlyn's  head.  For  a  moment  neither  of  the  two  com 
prehended  what  had  happened ;  but  the  next  instant  Padgett 
was  upon  his  feet,  running  like  a  deer  in  the  direction  of  a 
little  ring  of  blue  smoke  curling  lazily  upward  from  a  clump 
of  bushes  about  fifty  yards  away.  Whether  the  promptness 
of  Padgett  took  the  would-be  assassin  by  surprise  or  wrheth- 


396  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

er  he  was  too  sure  of  his  aim  to  make  any  attempt  to  escape, 
it  is  impossible  to  say ;  but  when  Vanderlyn  reached  the  spot 
he  found  Tiny  engaged  in  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  struggle 
with — Jim  Ashfield. 

"This  is  my  meat,  Padgett/'  he  said,  laying  his  powerful 
hand  upon  Ashfield.  "This  is  the  man  I'm  a-hunting  for. 
Providence  brought  him  here,  and  Providence  aimed  that 
rifle.  Stand  up,  Mr.  Ashfield,  and  give  an  account  of  your 
self.  You  ain't  improved  much  since  we  traveled  together 
fourteen  years  ago." 

"O,  I  know  you !"  exclaimed  Ashfield  in  a  shrill,  passion 
ate  voice.  I  know  you,  and  you  needn't  think  I  don't.  I 
know'd  you,  durn  you,  that  night  at  Floyd's  bar,  an'  I  ought 
to  'a'  settled  wi'  you  then.  But  it's  all  in  a  lifetime.  We'll 
git  even." 

"We  are  already  even,"  said  Vanderlyn.  "You  have  saved 
me  the  trouble  of  hunting  all  over  creation  for  you." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Padgett,  arranging  his  somewhat 
disordered  clothes,  "he  can  count  on  your  sympathy  and 
support." 

"That's  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  replied  Vanderlyn.  "You 
are  not  a  very  good  marksman,  Ashfield,"  he  continued, 
laughing. 

"I  would  V  bin,"  said  the  latter,  "ef  'twuzzent  fer  that 
d — d  partner  er  your'n  a-bobbin'  his  empty  head  in  the  way." 

"Why,  sir,"  exclaimed  Padgett,  "your  politeness  is  over 
powering.  Your  consideration  is  extraordinary.  I  shall 
treasure  your  remarkable  forbearance  in  my  memory.  What 
can  I  do  to  repay  you  ?" 

"You  can  fix  up  that,  Padgett,  after  we  get  to  town.  Mr. 
Ashfield  will  accompany  us." 

"I  shall  take  pleasure,  Mr.  Ashfield,"  said  Padgett  lightly, 
"in  aiding  to  escort  you.  The  procession  will  please  form. 
Are  you  ready,  Mr.  Ashfield?" 

"As  ready  as  I'll  ever  be,"  replied  the  other  sullenly. 

XXII 

While  Miss  Jane  Perryman  was  engaged  in  the  arduous 
duties  of  picking  a  chicken  for  dinner  she  was  astonished 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Mrs.  Dusenberry.  Miss  Jane, 
alluding  to  this  visit  long  afterwards,  said  she  was  "afeard 


Early  Literary  Efforts  397 

the  'oman,  seein'  that  a  chicken  wuz  to  be  put  in  the  pot,  'ud 
stay  all  day/'  but  it  is  more  than  probable  that  this  was  an 
afterthought.  Mrs.  Dusenberry  had  chickens  of  her  own, 
even  if  they  were  not  of  the  "yaller-legged"  variety.  She 
had  seen  the  procession,  which  had  been  so  unceremoniously 
formed  into  line  in  the  woods  by  Padgett,  pass  in^  front  of 
her  house,  and  she  hastened  to  convey  the  intelligence  to 
some  one  who  could  share  and  sympathize  with  her  bewil 
derment.  She  was  unceremonious. 

"Howdy,  Jane.  How's  Nora?  They've  got  'im.  I  seed 
'im." 

"Well,  in  the  name  er  gracious!  What  makes  you  so 
flustrated?  Who've  they  got?"  inquired  Miss  Jane,  looking 
coolly  at  her  visitor. 

"They've  got  Jim  Ashfield;  that's  who  they've  got,  an' 
they've  got  him  bad." 

"What  are  they  foolin'  'long  er  that  miserable  wretch  fer, 
I'd  like  ter  know?" 

"It's  more'n  I  kin  tell,  Jane ;  but  they've  got  'im.  I  seed 
'em  pass  my  house  not  more'n  two  minnits  ago.  That  man 
Vanderlyn  had  a  rifle,  and  Tiny  Padgett  had  a  cornstalk, 
makin'  believe  it  wuz  a  gun.  It's  my  'pinion  the  man  had 
been  drinkin'." 

"Which  man?"  asked  Miss  Jane  severely. 

"Why,  that  Tiny  Padgett.  You  oughter  'a'  seed  'im.  He 
was  a-gyratin'  roun'  an'  flourishin'  his  cornstalk  like  he 
wuz  the  boss  of  the  whole  camp  meetin'.  It's  a  lastin'  pity 
that  some  people  don't  have  no  sense." 

"What's  Jim-  Ashfield  done  now?"  inquired  Miss  Jane. 

"Lord  love  you,  I  don't  know !"  replied  Mrs.  Dusenberry. 
"But  he  wuz  a-marchin'  on  before,  an'  this  man  Vanderlyn 
was  a-follerin'  along,  an'  Tiny  Padgett  wuz  a-caperin'  roun', 
fust  makin'  b'lieve  his  cornstalk  wuz  a  gun  an'  then  ridin' 
it  like  it  wuz  a  hoss." 

"Did  they  have  'im  tied?" 

"It  wuzzent  nothin'  but  a  cornstalk  hoss,  Jane." 

Miss  Jane  looked  scornful.  "Did  I  ax  you  'bout  the  'bom- 
inable  cornstalk?  What  in  the  name  er  gracious  you  want 
ter  mix  folks  up  with  cornstalks  for?" 

"Well,  'tain't  me,  Jane.  It's  that  Padgett.  What's  he 
wanter  go  an'  be  totin'  a  cornstalk  like  a  gun  an'  then  the 


398  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

next  minnit  be  a-straddlin'  it  like  a  boss?  What's  a  man 
wanter  be  makin*  a  specktikle  er  hisself  for?  That's  what 
I  wanter  know.  They  took  Jim  Ashfield  right  to'rds  the 
jail/' 

"What  are  they  takin'  him  to  jail  for?" 

"That's  what  I  wanter  know,  Jane." 

"Well,  jails  ain't  a  bad  place  these  days,"  said  Miss  Jane 
sententiously.  "Somebody's  always  a-wantin'  ter  git  into 
'em,  an'  I  know  some  folks's  families  that  'ud  be  better  off 
ef  they's  all  git  put  in." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dusenberry,  anxious 
to  propitiate  the  frowning  Miss  Ferryman;  "an'  it's  what 
I've  said  all  the  time.  Ef  thar  wuz  more  jails,  folks  'ud  git 
'long  a  sight  better." 

"Ef  we  had  better  men,"  said  Miss  Jane,  giving  epigram 
matic  emphasis  to  her  words,  "we  wouldn't  have  no  jails  an' 
no  lawyers  an*  no  j edges.  It's  got  so  now  there's  five  law 
yers  to  every  piece  er  rascality  an'  a  jedge  to  every  law 
yer." 

In  the  meantime  Jim  Ashfield  was  really  marching  to  the 
jail.  His  captors  were  good-humored,  Padgett  even  hilari 
ously  so ;  but  both  were  obdurate,  and  the  would-be  assassin 
knew  that  it  would  be  idle  to  resist.  Therefore  he  made  the 
best  of  it  and  appeared  to  be  as  good-humored  as  the  others. 
When  Padgett  pranced  out  in  front  of  him  astride  of  a 
cornstalk,  as  children  ride  a  broomstick,  and  apparently 
making  a  great  effort  to  prevent  his  impoverished  horse 
from  running  away  then  and  there,  Ashfield  laughed  and 
said :  "You  oughter  let  out  your  surcingle,  Cap.,  an'  take  up 
your  sterrups  a  hole  er  two.  Ef  that  hoss  er  your'n  should 
happen  to  shy  at  a  hog  in  the  fence,  you'd  be  left  in  the 
dirt." 

"Why,  Jimmy,"  Padgett  responded,  "you  can't  expect  me 
to  dismount  right  here.  It  wouldn't  look  altogether  fash 
ionable.  This  horse  only  needs  exercise  to  make  him  as 
gentle  as  a  lamb." 

"Whatter  you  gwineter  put  me  in  jail  fer,  anyhow,  gents?" 
inquired  Ashfield  after  awhile  as  they  trudged  on  toward 
the  gloomy  Building  that  stood  in  the  edge  of  the  village — 
a  warning,  it  seemed,  to  all  who  came  within  sight. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  399 

Vanderlyn  was  silent;  but  Padgett,  whose  loquacity  ap 
peared  to  be  still  experiencing  the  effects  of  the  spree  of  the 
night  before,  answered  for  him. 

'It's  because  you  shot  at  a  squirrel  and  missed  him.  An 
old  sport  like  you  ought  to  know.  It's  an  offense  against 
good  morals  to  deliberately  aim  at  a  squirrel  and  miss  him. 
It's  contrary  to  the  law.  Whoa,  Wildcat !" — this  to  the  corn 
stalk. 

Nearing  the  tavern,  Padgett  became  more  demure.  He 
flung  his  cornstalk  away  and  walked  by  Vanderlyn's  side, 
assuming  a  dignity  that  was  in  laughable  contrast  with  his 
wild  pranks  of  a  few  moments  before.  A  lady  and  a  gen 
tlemen  were  standing  upon  the  piazza. 

"Now,  by  the  good  King  Harry!"  exclaimed  Padgett. 
'This  is  an  early  beginning.  Behold,  my  Lord  Vanderlyn, 
the  culmination  of  a  beautiful  romance !  That  is  the  noble 
Wellington.  He  seeketh  out  the  fair  Katherine  and  wooeth 
her.  But,  by  Jove" — in  a  tone  of  astonishment — "don't  he 
stand  the  racket,  though  ?  He  looks  as  fresh  as  a  lily  pad." 

And  he  did  look  fresh,  this  Mr.  Wellington,  as  he  stood 
leaning  against  one  of  the  wooden  columns  talking  earnestly 
to  the  schoolmistress.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  too,  Van 
derlyn  thought — lithe,  graceful,  straight  as  an  arrow,  self- 
poised,  and  with  an  air  of  languid  arrogance  that  well  be 
came  his  pale,  intellectual  features  and  his  fine  figure. 

"When  a  blind  owl  gets  any  drunker  than  he  was  last 
night,"  pursued  Padgett,  "and  gets  over  it  with  more  dis 
patch,  I'll  pay  for  the  owl,  that's  all." 

"I  would  rather  have  the  owl  than  the  man,"  said  Vander 
lyn  contemptuously. 

"That's  because  you  are  not  a  woman,"  replied  Padgett 
sarcastically.  "A  woman  would  swap  the  owl  for  that  nice 
man  twenty  times  a  day  and  give  a  bracelet  to  boot." 

"Yes,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "I  suppose  so.  But  what  is  that 
to  you  or  to  me?" 

At  this  moment  they  were  nearly  opposite  the  schoolmis 
tress  and  the  fascinating  Wellington.  Padgett  raised  his 
hat,  smiled,  and  bowed.  Vanderlyn  strode  onward,  turning 
his  head  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left;  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  "procession"  had  turned  a  corner  and  was  out 
of  sight,  leaving  the  fascinating  Mr,  Wellington  and  the  fair 


4OO  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Katherine  Underwood  standing  together  upon  the  long 
piazza. 

"O,  I'm  so  glad !"  exclaimed  the  schoolmistress,  who  had 
turned  pale  and  then  red. 

"Glad  of  what,  Katie?"  asked  Mr.  Wellington,  tapping 
his  boots  lightly  with  the  little  cane  he  held  in  his  hands. 

"Why,  that  they  have  caught  that  man.  He  is  a  terrible 
desperado." 

"Was  it  that  tall  fellow  ?" 

"Why,  how  absurd !"  exclaimed  the  schoolmistress  warm 
ly.  "He  is  the  best  and  noblest  man  I  ever  knew/' 

"Well,  I'm  a  stranger,  Katie.  I  am  not  supposed  to  know 
all  your  noblest  men  on  sight.  But,  upon  my  word,  if  some 
one  had  paraded  the  three  before  me,  I  should  unhesitatingly 
have  pointed  out  the  big  man  as  the  heavy  villain.  He  is  a 
strapper.  A  friend  of  yours,  I  presume." 

"No,"  said  the  schoolmistress  cautiously;  "an  acquaint 
ance.  In  Rockville  we  have  very  few  friends,  but  a  wide 
circle  of  acquaintances." 

"I  understand.  Provincial  altogether.  Decidedly  pastor 
al.  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  charming." 

The  man  was  gradually  losing  ground  without  knowing  it. 
In  the  old  days  this  man  standing  before  her  with  so  much 
self-confidence  had  been  the  ideal  hero  of  Kate  Under 
wood's  life;  and  perhaps  it  was  this  fact,  well  known  to 
him,  that  made  his  later  wooing  somewhat  arrogant  in  its 
effect,  if  not  in  its  intent.  In  her  girlish  dreams  this  man 
Wellington  had  rescued  her  from  old  castles  full  of  trap 
doors  and  secret  chambers  and  had  slain  the  fiery  dragons 
that  beset  her  path.  But  it  was  all  so  different  now.  It 
was  pleasant  enough  to  remember;  but  somehow  between 
her  and  the  love  of  her  youth  a  full,  stalwart,  manly  figure 
interposed  itself,  a  figure  capable  of  slaying  real  dragons 
and  of  storming  real  castles,  if  need  be,  not  only  for  the 
woman  he  loved,  but  for  any  one  in  distress.  And  then, 
somehow  or  other,  she  found  herself  contrasting  the  mod 
est,  manly  figure  whose  very  homeliness  seemed  suggestive 
of  all  that  was  pathetic  and  tender  with  the  self-sufficient, 
conceited  man  who  came  to  claim  from  the  woman  what  he 
had  received  from  the  girl.  The  contrast  was  not  a  favor- 


Early  Literary  Efforts  401 

able  one  to  Wellington,  and  this  fact  would  have  made  itself 
apparent  if  he  had  been  less  sure  of  his  ground. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  responding  somewhat  coldly  to  his  ban 
tering  words ;  "it  is  quite  charming  here,  as  you  will  find,  if 
you  choose  to  put  the  place  and  its  people  to  the  test." 

"God  forbid!"  he  exclaimed  fervently,  probably  remem 
bering  the  result  of  the  night  before. 

"We  are  contented  here,  at  least,"  said  the  schoolmistress, 
pretending  not  to  heed  his  interruption.  "We  are  contented, 
and  that  is  something." 

"Contented,  Katie?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "contented;  more  than  contented — 
happy." 

"And  yet  you  would  like  to  leave  here ;  you  would  like  to 
return  to  the  old  place.  You  remember  how  we  used  to 
hunt  the  robins'  nests  in  the  orchard?" 

"Ah,  yes !  That  was  ever  so  long  ago.  We  hunted  for 
them,  and  we  found  them,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  rob 
ins'  nests,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned." 

"But  what  of  the  robins,  Katie?"  The  man  was  stirred. 
After  a  manner  he  was  sincere.  He  had  traveled  many  a 
mile  to  find  this  woman;  and  he  was  determined,  if  possible, 
to  reestablish  the  dreams  of  his  youth.  "But  what  of  the 
robins?"  he  repeated,  seeing  that  she  was  gazing  vaguely 
away  past  and  beyond  him,  but  not  seeing  the  sturdy  figure 
that  seemed  to  be  standing  near,  imploring  her  by  its  very 
silence. 

"O,  the  robins !"  she  exclaimed,  still  watching  the  vision. 
"Would  we  know  them  if  we  saw  them  again?  Would  you 
know  them?  Would  they  know  us?" 

"But  maybe  the  nests  are  still  there,  Katie."  His  arro 
gance  seemed  all  at  once  to  desert  him.  She  saw  it  and 
pitied  him. 

"And  if  they  are,"  she  replied,  speaking  in  a  gentle  tone, 
a  tone  that  riled  him  utterly,  "the  robins  have  deserted 
them.  The  past  is  like  the  robins'  nests,"  she  continued, 
still  pitying  this  lover  of  her  youth.  "It  is  a  memory,  and 
that  is  all.  We  may  as  well  attempt  to  call  back  the  young 
birds  that  fed  so  confidently  from  our  hands  as  to  call  back 
the  past." 
26 


4O2  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"I  have  come  a  long  journey,  Katie,"  he  said  after  a  little 
pause,  "and  you  know  what  I  have  come  for.  I  have  looked 
forward  to  this  day  for  many  a  weary  year."  He  was  thor 
oughly  in  earnest  now,  but  he  seemed  to  anticipate  what  the 
result  would  be,  and  yet  it  seemed  so  impossible. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  what  you  have  come  for.  I 
know  all  that  you  would  say.  I  am  sorry,  indeed." 

"But,  Katie,  consider  what  I  have  lived  for  all  these 
years,"  he  said  impetuously. 

"I  do,"  she  replied  gently.  "I  consider  it  all;  and  if  I 
could  bring  back  the  past,  I  would,  but  I  cannot." 

"And  this  is  how  women  are  faithful,"  he  exclaimed  bit 
terly. 

"I  do  not  know.  To  be  true  to  you,  I  should  tell  you  the 
truth.  I  could  not  be  to  you  now  what  I  thought  I  was  in 
the  old  days.  It  is  a  pleasant  memory  to  me,  and  that  is  all." 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I  admire  your  frankness.  I  am 
going  North.  What  shall  I  say  to  your  friends  ?" 

"Say  to  them  that  you  found  me  contented  with  my  lot. 
Is  it  good-by?"  she  asked  as  he  held  out  his  delicate  white 
hand. 

"Unless  you  will  it  otherwise,"  his  face  white  and  drawn. 

"Good-by,  then,"  she  said  firmly,  and  Mr.  Wellington 
went  his  way. 

XXIII 

Wellington  went  his  way.  He  was  not  wholly  a  bad  man. 
He  loved  the  woman  not  as  well  as  he  loved  his  toddy,  but 
nearly  as  well.  His  experience  had  been  a  varied  one.  He 
had  wrestled  and  fought  with  Satan  in  all  his  forms  until 
it  was  of  little  importance  to  either  which  came  off  con 
queror.  But,  somehow  or  other,  this  woman  lived  in  his 
memory  and  disturbed  his  dreams.  She  was  associated  in 
his  recollection  with  his  mother,  a  prime  old  New  England 
lady,  who  was  always  ready  to  couple  a  warning  with  a 
benediction,  whose  life  was  full  of  fervor  and  whose  death 
was  as  peaceful  as  the  setting  of  the  sun.  He  had  made  so 
sure  of  his  future !  He  had  been  careless  in  his  actions,  but 
not  in  his  anticipations.  He  had  bought  the  old  Underwood 
house  in  Sunbury,  not  because  it  was  an  inviting  structure 
or  desirable  as  a  homestead,  but  because  he  thought  Kate 


Early  Literary  Efforts  403 

would  like  it.    It  was  there  he  had  first  seen  her.    It  was 
there  she  had  grown  into  womanhood,  while  he  journeyed 
among  the  pioneers  of  the  West  and  learned  to  fleece  them 
of  their  small  savings  in  a  genteel  way.     It  was  there  he 
fondly  dreamed  she  would  be  glad  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  her  days.    Perhaps  if  he  had  told  her  all,  if  he  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  go  over  his  struggles,  if  he  had  been  inclined 
to  speak  to  her  of  the  old  homestead,  the  result  might  have 
been  different;  and  yet  who  knows?     A  woman's  will  is 
wilder  than  the  wind's  will.    A  vane  guides  you  as  to  the 
wind,  but  who  has  been  insane  enough  to  fix  a  gauge  for  a 
woman's  will?     To  Kate  Underwood  the  romance  of  her 
youth  had  lost  its  piquancy.    The  assurance  of  her  old-time 
lover  had  lost  its  flavor.    If  he  had  been  a  trifle  less  confi 
dent,  if  he  had  wooed  as  one  who  had  little  hope,  if  he  had 
concealed  his  arrogance  beneath  a  veil  of  mock  despair,  as 
most  sensible  men  do,  perhaps  he  might  have  been  success 
ful.    At  least  he  might  have  created  an  impression;  at  the 
very  least  he  might  have  diverted  her  attention  temporarily 
from  the  man  who  had  begun  to  appear  to  her  in  dreams 
and  who  seemed  to  be  the  one  hero  of  her  wildest  romance. 
But  Wellington  failed  utterly.    He  undertook  to  gauge  the 
woman  by  the  girl  he  had  known  in  the  olden  time;  and 
when  he  walked  away,  vanquished  and  disappointed,  he 
knew  that  he  had  failed,  but  he  did  not  know  the  reason. 
But  he  accepted  the  result ;  and  when  he  stepped  from  the 
piazza  and  wandered  languidly  up  the  street,  whirling  his 
rattan  cane  in  the  air,  he  passed  from  Kate  Underwood's 
sight  forever.    It  was  well  for  him  that  he  did ;  it  was  well 
for  her.    She  thought  of  him  no  more.    Years  afterwards, 
when  little  children  played  at  her  feet  and  called  her  moth 
er,  she  remembered  almost  with  a  shudder  how  nearly  she 
had  come  to  surrendering  her  life  to  the  keeping  of  this 
most  inconstant  man;  and,  knowing  his  after  history,  fa 
miliar  with  his  stormy  career,  she  clasped  her  babes  to  her 
breast  and  thanked  heaven  that  she  had  not  followed  him 
into  the  wilderness,  and  yet  sometimes  she  dreamed  that  she 
might  have  led  him  to  a  nobler  and  higher  destiny.     Who 
can  tell?     Who  knows  what  possibilities  were  wrapped  up 
in  this  man's  soul?     Who  can  say  that  the  keen  edge  of 
disappointment  did  not  wound  him  utterly?     Fate  is  inex- 


404  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

orable.  Her  grim  figure  oftenest  stands  between  hope  and 
consummation,  and  that  which  we  call  chance  or  accident 
is  always  the  result  of  the  inevitable.  We  are  but  dreamers 
at  best.  That  which  seems  the  most  substantial  may  be  dis 
pelled  by  the  breath  of  dawn,  while  that  which  appears  to 
be  immaterial  may  endure  forever.  He  who  asks  for  the 
time  of  day  but  desires  to  chronicle  his  own  decay;  and  the 
only  consolation  of  the  best  of  us  is  that  the  oblivion  which 
lies  upon  the  outskirts  of  time  and  turmoil  affords  an  escape 
from  disappointment,  contumacy,  and  even  fate  itself.  The 
future  holds  no  miracles  for  the  philosopher,  and  the  tame 
tragedies  of  life  possess  no  pathos.  But  who  among  us  will 
assume  the  patient  garb  of  philosophy  or  claim  contentment 
as  our  own?  Who  shall  know  sin  from  wisdom?  In  the 
midst  of  mortality  we  see  but  dimly  at  best,  and  it  is  too 
early  to  condemn  the  schoolboy  who  a  thousand  years  from 
now  shall  stone  the  monuments  that  we  have  erected  to  per 
petuate  our  pride,  our  pomp,  or  our  affection. 

Wellington  went  his  way,  not  slowly  as  one  in  sorrow, 
but  jauntily  as  one  who  goes  to  a  festival.  He  went  his 
way  and  knew  not,  in  losing,  how  near  he  came  to  winning. 
Nor  did  the  woman  know  how  deep  a  wound  she  had  in 
flicted.  The  phantom  we  call  Fate  strode  in  between  the 
twain,  and  they  passed  on — she  to  fulfill  her  destiny,  and  he 
to  fulfill  his ;  she  to  fortune  and  to  happiness,  and  he  to  the 
misfortunes  that  so  continually  beset  us  all. 

Those  of  the  inhabitants  of  Rockville  who  trouble  them 
selves  to  read  this  hasty  chronicle  will  remember  Wellington 
as  a  desperate  gambler  and  drunkard,  careless  of  his  own 
future,  but  generous  to  the  last  degree,  a  man  whose  char 
ities  were  limited  only  by  the  scantiness  of  his  purse. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Dusenberry  had  aroused  the  neigh 
borhood.  From  Miss  Ferryman's  she  proceeded  to  Mrs. 
Bagley's ;  and  then  the  two,  intent  on  being  the  first  to  learn 
gloomy  tidings,  marched  in  solemn  procession  to  Mrs.  Pad 
gett's  and  recounted  in  the  most  profound  manner  the  ec 
centricities  of  Tiny  in  connection  with  the  startling  fact 
about  Jim  Ashfield. 

"An*  ef  I  do  say  it  myself,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dusenberry, 
complacently  smoothing  out  the  various  imaginary  folds  in 
her  gingham  apron,  "that  Tiny  acted  scandalous.  He  had 


Early  Literary  Efforts          .  405 

a  cornstalk,  an"  he  rid  it  roun'  like  as  ef  'twas  a  reg'lar 
built  hoss,  an'  sech  another  kickin'  up  you  never  seen.  It 
was  scandalous,  ef  I  do  say  it  myself." 

Mrs.  Padgett  was  too  anxious  to  hear  the  particulars  to 
come  to  the  rescue  of  Tiny.  Besides,  she  looked  upon  Mrs. 
Dusenberry  almost  as  one  of  the  family,  and  her  criticisms 
were  generally  of  far  less  importance  than  her  informa 
tion;  for  Mrs.  Padgett,  though  possessing  a  native  pride 
peculiarly  her  own  and  a  native  temper  of  absurd  propor 
tions,  was  much  readier  to  brook  an  insult  than  to  miss  an 
item  of  gossip.  Confine  the  female  mind  to  an  area  of  half 
a  mile  (it  cannot  be  conveniently  confined  in  a  less),  and 
it  runs  to  gossip  as  naturally  as  the  mocking  birds  sing,  even 
when  they  are  pent  up  in  a  cage;  not  that  the  imprisoned 
birds  sing  naturally,  but  it  is  their  misfortune  that  they  will 
attempt  to  sing  and  thus  give  thoughtless  people  an  excuse 
for  caging  them. 

Mrs.  Padgett  smoothed  her  irritation  as  best  she  might, 
making  a  martyr  of  herself  in  the  attempt,  and  then  the 
women  fell  to  gossiping  as  pleasantly  and  as  vivaciously  as 
though  they  were  the  sincerest  friends  and  did  not  despise 
each  other  most  heartily.  They  conversed  the  matter  thor 
oughly,  and  they  were  still  canvassing  it  when  Tiny  strode 
into  the  house. 

"Now  we'll  know/'  said  Mrs.  Dusenberry  complacently, 
untying  her  bonnet  and  flinging  it  upon  a  lounge  as  if 
preparing  for  a  siege. 

Mrs.  Padgett  looked  neither  elated  nor  confident.  She 
had  good  reason  to  fear  that  Tiny  would  not  add  to  their 
scant  stock  of  information.  She  had  reason  to  know  some 
thing  of  his  contempt  for  the  small  but  persistent  curiosity 
of  women.  She  had  long  ago  become  familiar  with,  but 
not  accustomed  to,  his  astonishing  waywardness,  and  she 
was  not  sanguine  that  he  would  be  inclined  to  respond  read 
ily  to  the  inquiries  in  store  for  him.  She  knew  by  his  move 
ments,  however,  that  he  was  in  good  humor.  He  came  in 
singing  and  passed  through  the  hall  to  the  back  porch, 
where  the  ladies  presently  heard  him  yelling  at  Aunt  Patsy, 
the  cook. 

"Come  out  of  there,  you  old  reprobate,  and  get  me  some 
thing  to  eat !"  he  bawled.  "Do  you  think  a  man's  going  to 


406  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

starve  just  because  you  like  to  sit  and  feel  the  flies  crawling 
on  you?" 

Aunt  Patsy,  who  fairly  worshiped  her  young  master, 
principally  because  he  was  one  of  the  ideal  vagabonds  of 
the  era,  made  a  great  pretense  of  perpetual  gruff  ness  in  her 
dealings  with  him. 

"How  you  reckon  I  gwineter  git  dinner  ef  I  gotter  be  eter 
nally  gittin'  breakfus'  two  times  in  de  blessid  mornin'? 
Look  like  dat  some  folks  is  allers  a-huntin'  roun'  seein'  ef 
dey  can't  flustrate  somebody.  Ef  I  git  you  enny  breakfus' 
now,  you  better  count  it  dinner,  'cause  I  ain't  gwineter  be 
sailin'  roun'  an'  gittin'  yo'  dinner  after  supper,  I  kin  tell 
you  dat  now." 

"No,  you  old  villain.  You  sit  here  and  stuff  yourself 
day  in  and  day  out,  and  you  think  nobody  else  wants  to  eat. 
I  want  you  to  hurry  up  with  that  banquet." 

"Whar  dat  pipe  w'at  you  promise  mammy?"  This  in  a 
conciliating  tone.  "I  'lay  you  didn't  fetch  it,  an'  now  here 
you  come  a-hollerin'  an'  a-bawlin'  'bout  victuals  w'at  you 
oughter  dun  et  yistiddy." 

The  querulous  old  darky  knew  he  had  the  pipe ;  and  so 
she  didn't  wait  for  a  reply,  but  went  bustling  around  getting 
together  the  little  delicacies  she  had  saved  for  her  favorite. 

Meanwhile  Tiny,  going  into  the  sitting  room,  was  attacked 
by  the  ladies,  who  were  lying  in  wait  for  him.  He  was 
saluted  with  a  chorus  of  questions  about  Jim  Ashfield.  Was 
he  in  jail?  Really  and  truly  in  jail?  What  for?  What 
had  he  done?  Who  put  him  in  there?  Was  he  chained? 
Was  it  very  dark  in  the  jail?  Did  he  try  to  escape? 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  you  much,  ladies,"  said  young  Padgett 
in  reply  to  the  chorus.  "But  I'll  say  this :  It  is  a  very  mys 
terious  case.  The  man  will  have  trouble  before  he  is 
through  with  it.  It  looks  to  me  like  a  very  plain  affair." 

The  ladies  were  excited.  Didn't  they  say  so?  Hadn't 
they  told  each  other  over  and  over  again  that  there  was 
something  wrong  about  the  man?  They  didn't  know  what, 
but  they  were  sure  it  was  something.  Yes,  indeed !  He 
looked  like  a  murderer.  Hadn't  they  noticed  the  cut  of  his 
eyes?  and  didn't  they  remark  the  reckless  way  he  had  of 
walking?  To  be  sure,  they  had,  not  once,  but  frequently. 
It  was  a  mercy  that  with  such  a  man  roaming  around  that 


Early  Literary  Efforts 

way  every  woman  and  child  in  the  country  hadn't  been 
killed  every  night  in  the  week.  Thus  the  chorus  went  on, 
until  finally  Padgett  remarked  gravely:  "I  am  one  of  the 
lawyers,  ladies,  and  some  of  you  may  have  to  be  summoned 
as  witnesses."  Whereupon  each  woman  became  suddenly 
ignorant.  Mrs.  Dusenberry  hardly  knew  the  man  by  sight, 
and  Mrs.  Bagley  vowed  that  if  John  Bell  hadn't  told  her 
who  Ashfield  was  she  would  have  failed  to  recognize  him. 

XXIV 

The  incarceration  of  Jim  Ashfield  created  considerable 
excitement  in  Rockville.  In  fact,  it  was  a  sensation,  the 
first  that  had  been  vouchsafed  to  the  village  since  he  had 
been  arrested  and  jailed  several  years  before,  so  that  some  of 
the  older  citizens  were  moved  to  remark  that  it  seemed  as  if 
Providence  had  had  some  hand  in  preserving  the  man  for 
the  purpose  of  providing  exciting  interludes  in  the  dead 
calm  of  peace  and  prosperity  which  had  brooded  over  the 
little  town. 

Both  Miss  Jane  and  Nora  endeavored  to  get  the  partic 
ulars  of  the  affair  from  William  Wornum,  but  he  was  de 
cidedly  reticent  upon  the  subject.  They  knew  he  had  long, 
confidential  talks  with  Vanderlyn,  but  somehow  he  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  be  communicative.  Nora,  however,  was 
persistent,  and  she  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  refer  to  the 
subject. 

"I  think  it  is  hard,"  she  said  one  afternoon  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  porch,  "that  he  should  be  put  in  jail." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  schoolmaster,  "it  is  hard." 

"I  mean  it  is  cruel." 

"Yes;  but  in  order  to  be  just  it  is  necessary  that  we  should 
be  both  hard  and  cruel." 

"I  do  not  think  it  just,"  she  said. 

"No,  because  you  cannot  understand  that  cruelty  should 
accompany  justice.  It  may  be  that  this  is  one  of  the  neces 
sities  inherited  from  the  era  of  barbarism,  but  it  is  a  neces 
sity,  nevertheless." 

"But  he  has  a  sister,"  she  persisted. 

"It  is  her  misfortune  that  she  has  such  a  brother,"  the 
schoolmaster  replied.  "It  is  one  of  the  accidents  of  fate  that 


408  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

she  must  make  the  best  of  it.  If  AshfielcTs  bullet  had  hit 
its  mark,  we  should  have  pitied  Jack;  but  how  would  that 
have  consoled  him  ?  Would  our  pity  repair  his  loss  ?  Does 
pity  justify  murder?" 

"You  put  it  too  harshly,"  she  said  gently.  "I  was  only 
thinking  of  the  loneliness  of  the  poor  woman  whose  brother 
is  in  jail.  The  thought  of  her  grief  confuses  me." 

"I  only  put  it  fairly,"  he  made  reply.  "The  fact  that  this 
woman's  brother  is  in  jail  is  her  misfortune.  We  all  have 
our  misfortunes,  and  we  all  have  to  make  the  best  of  them. 
Here  was  a  deliberate  attempt  at  murder,  according  to  all 
accounts." 

"What  motive  could  the  man  have  had  for  committing 
murder?" 

"We  will  endeavor  to  establish  the  motive  during  the 
trial.  We  hope  to  prove  that,  at  the  very  least,  he  had 
motive  enough  to  make  the  attempt." 

"But  the  grief  of  his  sister  must  be  very  bitter,  whether 
he  be  guilty  or  not,"  Nora  said,  clinging  to  the  womanly 
argument  which  had  first  suggested  itself. 

"If  he  be  guilty,"  responded  the  schoolmaster,  "he  should 
be  punished,  whether  his  sister's  grief  be  bitter  or  not.  It 
may  be  that  my  sympathy  for  the  sister  is  not  as  keen  as 
yours ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  sympathize  with  her.  I  am  told 
that  she  is  devoted  to  this  vagabond  brother  of  hers.  More's 
the  pity.  It  is  not  the  first  time  he  has  brought  grief  upon 
her,  but  I  dare  say  it  will  be  the  last.  There  are  other  peo 
ple,"  he  also  continued,  thinking  of  his  own  troubles,  "who 
need  your  sympathy." 

"Need  my  sympathy?"  she  asked,  her  heightened  color 
failing  to  verify  the  incredulity  of  her  tone.  "Who  are  they, 
pray?" 

"Various  people,"  he  replied  coolly ;  "various  people  whom 
you  do  not  take  into  account.  It  is  true  they  are  insignifi 
cant  people;  but  they  have  their  troubles  and  their  griefs, 
nevertheless." 

"We  can  pity  only  those  whose  sorrows  we  know  of,"  she 
said  gently. 

"We  are  continually  learning,"  he  replied,  laughing  a  little 
harshly.  "I  had  thought  that  sympathy  embraced  all  the 
sorrows  we  could  conceive  of.  But  this  is  a  practical  age; 


Early  Literary  Efforts  409 

and  pity,  for  want  of  something  better  to  do,  has  become  a 
census  taker." 

"Now  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  Nora,  pouting  pet 
tishly. 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  am  only  reasoning  with  you.  I  am  only 
insisting  that  if  sympathy  is  a  missionary  and  sorrow  a 
heathen,  it  is  well  not  to  follow  the  old  example  of  searching 
them  out  in  foreign  lands.  The  pagans  are  at  our  very 
doors." 

"You  make  too  severe  an  application  of  your  morals," 
she  replied.  "I  was  speaking  of  this  man's  sister.  We  can 
sympathize  only  with  those  whose  sorrows  and  whose  mis 
fortunes  we  know.  Otherwise  our  sympathy  becomes  sen 
timental  and  purposeless.  I  know  of  no  one  who  needs  to 
be  pitied  more  than  this  poor  woman." 

"And  yet  there  are  others,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"I  do  not  know  them,"  said  the  blind  girl  gently.  "They 
keep  their  troubles  to  themselves.  They  have  little  need  of 
the  sympathy  of  one  like  me." 

"You  cannot  tell.  None  of  us  can  tell.  It  is  best  we 
should  not  know.  Sympathy  sown  broadcast  over  the  land 
is  the  best,  after  all.  It  is  sure  to  reach  its  mark." 

This  was  one  of  the  many  attempts  of  Nora  to  find  out 
the  probable  motive  that  induced  Jim  Ashfield  to  attempt  to 
burn  Vanderlyn's  shop  and  afterwards  to  make  an  effort  to 
assassinate  him.  All  sorts  of  rumors  were  afloat  in  the 
town  and  in  the  country.  One  was  to  the  effect  that  Van- 
derlyn  had  made  an  attempt  to  poison  Ashfield's  sister  while 
she  was  sick.  Another  was  that  Tiny  Padgett  had  exasper 
ated  the  man  by  laughing  at  him  until  he  was  obliged  to 
shoot  him  in  self-defense.  Hundreds  of  such  rumors  were 
abroad.  Mrs.  Dusenberry  had  her  theory,  Mrs.  Bagley  hers, 
and  Miss  Jane  hers.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  they  were  all 
wide  of  the  mark,  but  that  made  little  difference.  They 
were  as  stoutly  held  to  as  though  they  had  been  verified  over 
and  over  again,  and  some  of  them  became  traditions  long 
after  the  true  facts  were  known  to  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  within  fifty  miles  of  Rockville — insomuch  so  that  it  is 
doubtful  if  those  who  ought  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances  will  not  look  upon  this  hasty  chronicle  as  an 
exaggeration  of  fiction. 


410  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

But  the  gossips  had  their  way,  and  the  law  had  its  way. 
The  summer  waned,  and  autumn  took  her  place.  September 
came  in  with  a  touch  of  winter,  and  the  time  for  the  meeting 
of  the  Superior  Court  came  rapidly  on.  It  was  an  eventful 
period  to  those  who  have  figured  in  this  unpretentious 
sketch.  It  was  the  culmination  of  the  history  which  I  have 
endeavored  to  write. 

xxv 

The  languor  of  September  fell  upon  the  village  of  Rock- 
ville  quietly  and  serenely.  The  amber  sunsets  burned  the 
pleasant  days  to  ashes  in  the  west,  and  the  rosy  morning 
fanned  them  to  flames  in  the  east.  As  the  time  for  holding 
court  approached,  the  gossips  grew  more  and  more  confi 
dential,  and  the  substantial  men  of  the  town  communed 
together  with  an  air  of  mingled  sadness  and  reproach,  as 
who  should  say :  "This  is  nothing  to  us.  We  have  done  the 
best  we  could.  This  man  Ashfield  is  to  be  tried,  but  that  is 
none  of  our  affair."  The  high  sheriff  of  the  county,  Colonel 
John  B.  Pitts,  became  more  dignified  and  less  communica 
tive.  The  Colonel  was  the  center  of  attraction;  for,  in  the 
minds  of  the  people,  he  wielded  a  great  deal  more  power 
and  was,  therefore,  more  powerful  than  the  fat,  good-na 
tured  judge  who  presided  upon  the  bench  and  who,  while 
the  lawyers  were  lashing  themselves  and  the  jury  into  a 
passion  with  their  fiery  eloquence,  frequently  fanned  him 
self  to  sleep  and  dreamed  strange  dreams  of  men  who  way 
laid  strangers  in  the  wilderness  and  devoured  them  bodily 
without  compunction.  Mr.  Bagley  was  very  much  interested 
in  all  this  and  had  made  frequent  attempts  to  approach 
Colonel  Pitts  on  the  subject,  but  the  Colonel  was  inexorable. 

"It's  no  use,  boys,"  he  would  say  on  such  occasions.  "The 
law's  gotter  take  her  course.  What  the  law  says,  that's 
what  I  say,  and  I  don't  say  no  more.  When  she  clamps 
down  on  a  man,  he's  got  for  to  lay  thar  tell  she  let's  up. 
That's  the  law." 

And  it  was  the  law  in  those  days.  Lately  the  law  has 
given  way  to  the  freaks  of  the  lawyers.  But  when  Jim  Ash- 
field  lay  in  jail  in  Rockville  the  lawyers  could  do  nothing 
for  him.  Indeed,  they  didn't  try.  In  the  first  place,  public 
sentiment  was  against  him ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  he  was 


Early  Literary  Efforts  411 

unable  to  secure  a  lawyer  and  was  altogether  without  coun 
sel  until  Emory  Reed  volunteered  to  defend  him.  I  am  of 
the  opinion  that  young  Reed  was  prompted  to  do  this  by  the 
sympathy  which  Nora  Ferryman  was  in  the  habit  of  ex 
pressing.  Somehow  she  seemed  to  feel  unutterable  pity  for 
the  sister  of  the  wretched  man,  and  this  led  her  to  recur  to 
his  case  again  and  again. 

A  change  had  also  come  over  Tiny  Padgett.  He  forsook 
his  wild  companions;  and  if  he  drank  at  all,  he  did  not 
drink  to  excess.  It  was  true,  as  he  had  said,  that  he  had 
been  engaged  as  the  prosecuting  attorney  for  the  prosecu 
tion,  and  he  seemed  to  be  devoting  his  whole  attention  to 
the  case.  He  was  cool,  collected,  and  industrious.  He  had 
long  walks  and  talks  with  Vanderlyn,  and  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  pursue  a  line  that  would  astonish  the  prosecu 
tion  and  the  defense,  as  well  as  the  judge  and  jurors.  He 
was  not  as  reticent  as  Sheriff  Pitts,  for  he  really  had  some 
thing  to  conceal,  while  the  sheriff  had  nothing;  but  he  was 
less  communicative.  He  had  devoted  himself  entirely  to  the 
case,  so  much  so  that  the  State  solicitor  was  content  to  occu 
py  a  position  in  the  background.  • 

Kate  Underwood  was  as  inquisitive  as  the  rest,  but  she 
had  little  opportunity  to  see  Vanderlyn,  who  seemed  to 
avoid  her;  and  as  Miss  Jane  knew  as  little  about  the  matter 
as  any  one  else,  her  curiosity  was  not  at  all  satisfied. 

In  the  meantime  the  first  day  of  court  week  drew  rapidly 
nigh,  and  finally  it  dawned.  The  people  began  to  come  in 
from  the  country  early  in  the  morning,  all  eager  to  be  pres 
ent  at  what  promised  to  be  the  most  sensational  trial  Rock- 
ville  had  ever  witnessed.  Lawyers  came  from  a  distance, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  the  village,  each  and  every  one,  got 
ready  to  swell  the  crowd  of  spectators.  Judge  Vardeman 
was  early  in  his  seat,  and  various  smaller  cases  were  dis 
posed  of  or  postponed.  Finally  the  clerk  of  the  court,  a  pale 
little  man,  read  from  the  docket :  "The  State  versus  James 
Ashfield — assault  with  intent  to  murder."  There  was  a 
hush  in  the  courthouse.  Ashfield  sat  in  the  prisoner's  bar, 
eying  the  crowd  sullenly  and  wickedly,  while  Emory  Reed, 
his  counsel,  talked  earnestly  to  him.  William  Wornum  was 
busily  engaged  in  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  ponderous 
volume  in  calf,  while  the  solicitor  was  nervously  thumbing 


412  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

a  number  of  papers  bound  with  a  piece  of  red  tape.  All 
seemed  to  be  engaged  except  Tiny  Padgett,  who  sat  tilted 
back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
watching  the  clouds  as  they  passed  in  panoramic  procession 
before  the  windows.  A  jury  was  quickly  impaneled  from 
the  large  number  of  citizens  present.  But  just  as  the  case 
was  about  to  go  in  Padgett  arose,  passed  his  fingers  care 
lessly  through  his  hair,  and  said :  "May  it  please  your  hon 
or,  I  move  that  the  indictment  be  quashed  and  that  we  pro 
ceed  to  try  the  next  case." 

There  was  some  little  sensation  in  the  court  room,  and 
the  judge  fanned  himself  somewhat  petulantly  as  he 
asked :  "What  is  the  next  case,  Mr.  Clerk?" 

"The  State  versus  James  Ashfield — child-stealing." 

The  sensation  deepened.  Perhaps  the  only  ones  who  were 
not  astonished  were  the  prisoner,  Padgett,  and  the  pale 
clerk. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Emory  Reed,  "this  is  a 
new  turn  of  affairs  to  us.  We  are  not  prepared" — 

"Your  honor,"  said  Padgett,  rising  quickly  to  his  feet, 
"they  affe  as  well  prepared  as  they  will  ever  be.  They  have 
all  their  witnesses  here.  They  have  had  due  notice." 

Emory  Reed  consulted  for  some  time  with  his  client ;  but 
the  consultation  did  not  seem  to  be  satisfactory,  for  he  final 
ly  arose  with  a  frown  upon  his  handsome  face  and  said: 
"We  are  ready,  your  honor." 

And  then  the  trial  began.  The  opening  speeches  of  the 
counsel  were  exceedingly  tame,  at  least  to  the  spectators. 
The  prosecution  maintained  that  the  prisoner,  some  years 
before,  had  stolen  the  child  of  Judge  Walthall  and  should 
suffer  the  penalty  of  the  law  therefor;  while  the  defense 
held  that,  having  restored  the  child,  he  was,  in  effect,  guilt 
less. 

"If  you  are  through,  gentlemen,"  said  Judge  Vardeman 
when  the  counsel  for  the  defense  had  taken  his  seat,  "we 
are  ready  to  hear  testimony." 

"Mr.  Sheriff,"  said  Tiny  Padgett,  "call  Mr.  Daniel  Van- 
derlyn."  But  it  was  needless  to  call  him.  He  was  present, 
and  when  he  heard  his  name  he  pressed  forward. 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  you  wanted  me?"  he  asked, 
glancing  first  at  the  Judge  and  then  at  Padgett. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  413 

"Yes,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  said  the  latter,  waving  his  hand 
coldly  toward  the  witness  stand.  "I  desire  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions." 

Vanderlyn  was  evidently  taken  by  surprise.  He  was  cool 
and  imperturbable,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  did  not  under 
stand  the  tactics  of  Padgett.  He  glanced  quizzically  at  the 
young  lawyer;  but  the  latter  was  still  looking  languidly  at 
the  procession  of  clouds  that  passed  before  the  window, 
some  white  and  silvery,  some  fringed  with  gold,  and  some 
black  and  threatening.  Not  once  did  he  turn  his  eyes  from 
the  window.  He  seemed  to  know  by  intuition  what  was 
passing  around  him ;  and  when  all  was  ready  he  rose  to  his 
feet  and,  with  one  hand  upon  the  back  of  his  chair,  the  other 
toying  with  a  small  ball  of  paper,  and  his  face  still  turned 
toward  the  vague  perspective  that  stretched  away  from  the 
window,  he  proceeded  to  examine  the  witness.  His  method 
of  examination  was  new  to  the  experience  of  the  Rockville 
court;  and  the  older  lawyers,  watching  him  closely,  mar 
veled  at  his  indescribable  coolness.  People  who  had  known 
him  all  their  lives  seemed  to  forget  that  they  had  ever  seen 
him.  He  appeared  before  them  for  once  completely  sober. 
There  was  no  trace  of  dissipation  upon  his  face.  The 
schoolmistress,  sitting  where  she  could  see  him  in  profile, 
was  reminded  of  the  pictures  of  Raphael,  a  resemblance 
that  was  intensified  by  the  remarkably  sad  expression  which 
seemed  to  light  up  his  features.  One  young  woman — Vic 
toria  Sparks,  I  think  her  name  was — said  long  afterwards 
that  he  looked  that  day  like  a  poet.  Nora  Perryman,  sitting 
with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  sister's  arm,  heard  his  voice 
and  recognized  with  a  thrill  that  some  great  change  had  come 
over  him.  All  his  old-time  humor  seemed  to  have  fled. 
Where  was  the  boisterous,  reckless  wag  that  even  the  ne 
groes  familiarly  alluded  to  as  Tiny  Padgett?  The  school 
master,  who  was  a  great  student  of  character,  found  him 
self  mystified  and  puzzled  beyond  measure  at  the  great 
change  that  had  come  over  the  young  man.  And  the  Judge, 
who  had  only  known  Padgett  as  a  reckless  young  vagabond, 
who  often  made  trouble  in  the  court  room  by  turning  the 
most  serious  episodes  into  ridicule,  stopped  fanning  himself 
to  regard  with  astonishment  the  pale,  pathetic  face.  Few  of 
the  people  who  saw  him  standing  there  ever  forgot  his  ap- 


414  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

pearance,  for  few  of  them  ever  saw  him  again.  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  until  the  noise  in  the  court  room  had  entirely 
subsided — until,  indeed,  the  silence  seemed  to  be  breathless. 
Then,  half  turning  to  Vanderlyn,  but  still  looking  out 
through  the  window,  he  began  the  examination. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"    His  voice  was  firm,  cold,  and  curt. 

"I— that  is"— 

Padgett  waved  his  hand  imperiously. 

"What  is  your  occupation?"  Vanderlyn  drew  a  deep 
breath  in  relief. 

"I  am  a  gunmaker." 

"You  make  guns  and  set  yourself  up  as  a  target.  Very 
well.  Do  you  know  that  man  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  Jim  Ashfield?" 

"Yes." 

"I  have  met  him  before." 

"Do  you  remember  when  and  where  you  met  him  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

XXVI 

Padgett  repeated  the  question :  "Do  you  remember  when 
and  where  you  met  this  man,  this  Jim  Ashfield?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"Do  you  mind  stating  the  particulars  to  the  jury?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  met  Ashfield  at  'Cajy  Cooper's,  where 
his  sister  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death." 

"How  often  did  you  meet  him?" 

"Once  only." 

"Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"May  it  please  your  honor,"  said  Vanderlyn,  appealing 
from  the  curtness  of  Padgett  to  the  apparent  benevolence 
of  the  Judge,  but  Padgett  anticipated  him. 

"The  court  is  not  examining  you,  Mr.  Vanderlyn.  You 
must  answer  my  question.  Did  you  know  this  man  Ashfield 
when  you  saw  him  at  'Cajy  Cooper's  ?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Vanderlyn  looked  at  the  Judge,  who 
was  fanning  himself  placidly,  at  Padgett,  who  was  still 
watching  the  clouds  float  past  the  window,  and  at  the  crowd, 
which  seemed  to  be  eager  to  hear  his  answer. 

"I  thought  I  knew  him,"  he  finally  answered. 

"You  were  not  sure  ?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  415 

"No." 

"Did  you  meet  him  afterwards?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"At  Floyd's  saloon." 

"Did  you  know  him  then  ?" 

"I  did." 

"By  what  sign  did  you  recognize  him?" 

"By  a  scar  upon  his  forehead." 

All  except  Padgett  turned  their  eyes  upon  Ashfield.  Just 
above  his  brows  there  shone  a  livid  scar,  a  scar  that  might 
have  been  taken  for  the  trail  of  a  fiery  serpent. 

"It  would  appear  from  this,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  that  you 
knew  this  man  even  before  you  met  him  at  'Cajy  Cooper's. 
Am  I  right?" 

There  was  another  pause.  Vanderlyn's  glance  wandered 
from  judge  and  jury  and  finally  rested  upon  Kate  Under 
wood.  Something  in  the  sadness  of  that  fair  face  seemed  to 
reassure  him.  Turning  slowly,  he  glanced  at  Judge  Wal- 
thall,  who  sat  within  the  bar,  and  replied  in  a  tone  that  rang 
through  the  court  room :  "You  are  right." 

"You  knew  this  man  before  you  met  him  at  Coop 
er's?" 

"I  did." 

"Before  you  came  to  Rockville?" 

"I  did." 

"Will  you  state  to  the  court  and  to  the  jury  the  circum 
stances  under  which  you  met  the  prisoner?" 

"Your  honor,  am  I  compelled  to  answer  these  questions  ?" 
asked  Vanderlyn,  turning  to  the  Judge. 

"The  witness  must  answer  all  questions  having  a  tendency 
to  inculpate  or  exculpate  the  prisoner.  We  must  get  at  all 
the  facts  bearing  directly  or  indirectly  upon  this  extraordi 
nary  case." 

No  one  but  Padgett  and  the  schoolmaster  knew  why  the 
complacent  Judge  alluded  to  the  case  as  an  extraordinary 
one. 

"Where  did  you  first  meet  the  prisoner?"  pursued  Pad 
gett,  as  though  nothing  had  occurred. 

"At  Roach's  Ferry,"  responded  Vanderlyn. 

"When?" 


416  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"In  1841." 

"Will  you  please  state  to  the  court  and  the  jury  the  cir 
cumstances  ?" 

"I  was  peddling  tobacco,"  said  Vanderlyn.  "I  was  driv 
ing  a  wagon.  I  reached  this  ferry  about  dusk.  This  man 
here  was  sitting  upon  the  bank  and  asked  me  to  give  him  a 
lift  to  the  next  town.  I  was  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  and  I 
told" —  [Omission  in  copy.] 

"Why  were  you  so  quick  to  help  this  stranger  along?" 

"He  seemed  to  be  broken  down.    It  was  pure  charity." 

"Was  there  no  other  reason  ?"  asked  Padgett,  turning  for 
the  first  time  and  looking  the  witness  straight  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Glancing  around,  Van 
derlyn  once  more  caught  the  clear  eyes  of  Katherine  Under 
wood  resting  upon  him.  That  decided  him.  But  even  this 
pause  gave  Padgett  an  excuse  for  repeating  his  question. 

"Was  there  no  other  reason  ?" 

"There  was." 

"Well?"  Padgett's  voice  was  cold  and  informal,  almost 
cruel. 

"He  had  a  little  child  with  him,"  the  other  replied  gently, 
but  not  so  gently  that  in  the  breathless  silence  that  reigned 
his  voice  did  not  go  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  hall. 

There  was  a  little  stir  among  the  ladies,  and  then  they  all 
looked  at  each  other  in  a  deprecatory  way.  Miss  Victoria 
Sparks  stated  afterwards  in  her  strong  vernacular  that 
"Kate  Underwood  sat  bolt  upright,  as  white  as  a  sheet." 
Tiny  Padgett  flipped  his  ball  of  paper  through  the  window 
as  though  he  had  carried  a  point.  Something  of  his  old 
manner  returned,  and  for  the  first  time  he  turned  and  looked 
straight  at  the  witness. 

"Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  he  said,  "will  you  give  to  the  court  and 
the  jury  the  history  of  that  child?  Will  you  tell  us  what 
disposition  was  made  of  it?" 

"I  have  no  objection,"  said  the  witness.  "But  before  I 
proceed  I  would  be  glad  if  you  would  read  this,"  handing  a 
slip  of  paper  to  the  young  lawyer.  "I  was  told  to  give  it  to 
you." 

Padgett  received  the  slip  and,  apparently  without  looking 
at  it,  passed  it  to  the  schoolmaster  with  the  remark :  "This 
is  to  be  filed  with  the  other  documents." 


Early  Literary  Efforts  417 

Whether  it  was  filed  or  not,  it  was  never  known ;  but  it 
was  never  produced.  Indeed,  William  Wornum  seemed 
shortly  afterwards  to  grow  tired  of  this  trial ;  for  he  arose, 
beckoned  to  Jack,  who  sat  among  the  spectators,  and  the 
two  went  out  together.  It  was  observed  by  the  older  law 
yers  who  were  present  that  the  witness  underwent  a  great 
change.  He  spoke  without  embarrassment  and  was  more 
communicative. 

"Shall  I  go  on?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Certainly,"  said  Padgett.  "We  desire  the  full  history  of 
the  case." 

"I  was  peddling  tobacco,"  Vanderlyn  began,  "and  I  had 
occasion  to  cross  the  Oconee  at  Roach's  Ferry.  It  was 
nearly  dusk  when  I  reached  the  landing,  and  the  first  thing 
that  attracted  my  attention  was  a  man  sitting  down  by  the 
side  of  the  road  with  a  child  in  his  arms.  The  child  was 
crying.  While  waiting  for  the  ferryman  I  drew  this  man 
into  a  conversation,  and  I  discovered  that  he  was  traveling 
in  my  direction.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  give  him  a  lift. 
I  told  him  I  thought  I  could.  I  was  impressed  by  the  crying 
of  the  child.  It  seemed  to  be  exhausted.  I  took  this  man 
in  my  wagon,  and  we  went  on  a  long  journey  together.  The 
man  had  no  sooner  climbed  into  the  wagon  than  the  child 
wanted  to  come  to  me,  and  I  took  it  in  my  lap  and  carried 
it  for  miles  and  miles  that  way.  It  became  an  everyday 
business.  The  child  never  seemed  satisfied  with  the  other 
man,  but  was  continually  crying  to  come  to  me.  One  night 
we  camped  near  the  Alabama  line.  It  was  pretty  cold,  and 
we  made  a  rousing  fire.  I  had  gone  to  sleep  with  the  child 
in  my  arms,  but  I  awoke  about  day  the  next  morning  and 
found  the  child  gone.  Pretty  soon  I  heard  a  cry,  and  I 
just  raised  the  wagon  cover  a  little,  and  what  do  you  think 
I  saw?" 

No  one  answered,  and  there  was  such  silence  in  the  court 
room  that  a  pin  might  have  been  heard  to  drop. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  continued  Vanderlyn,  raising  his  right 
hand  above  his  head  as  if  about  to  deliver  a  blow  some 
where,  "I  saw  the  man  I  was  telling  you  about  heating  one 
of  the  iron  rods  of  my  feed  trough,  and  I  heard  him  say  to 
the  child  in  his  lap:  'You  hate  the  sight  of  me,  do  you? 
Well,  d — n  you,  after  this  you  won't  have  a  sight  of  me/ 
27 


418  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Gentlemen,  what  do  you  think  this  infernal  wretch  was 
going  to  do?"  Vanderlyn  was  trembling  all  over.  "He 
was  going  to  burn  this  baby's  eyes  out.  He  said  so,  and  he 
intended  to  do  it.  He  grabbed  the  child  by  the  back  of  the 
neck  and  seized  the  red-hot  iron,  but  by  the  time  he  got  it 
out  of  the  fire  I  had  clutched  him." 

"What  did  you  do  ?"  asked  Padgett,  smiling  a  little. 

"I  choked  him  down,"  replied  Vanderlyn,  his  voice  trem 
bling  with  suppressed  passion,  "and  rubbed  that  red-hot 
iron  across  his  forehead  until  I  could  hear  the  flesh  fry,  and 
then  I  drove  off  and  left  him." 

During  this  recital  Jim  Ashfield  had  turned  to  look  at  the 
witness,  who  was  thrilling  the  courthouse  with  his  recital; 
and  judge,  jury,  and  spectators  noticed  the  flaming  red  scar 
that  seemed  burned  into  his  forehead.  There  was  consider 
able  excitement  in  the  room,  but  it  failed  to  reach  Padgett. 
To  all  appearances  he  was  as  calm  and  serene  as  ever.  He 
seemed  to  the  older  lawyers,  who  were  used  to  such  things, 
to  be  calculating  the  effect  this  dramatic  testimony  would 
have  upon  the  jury.  He  resumed  the  examination. 

"So  far,  so  good,  Mr.  Vanderlyn.  But  what  became  of 
the  child?" 

XXVII 

"What  became  of  the  child?"  pursued  Padgett,  as  Van 
derlyn  paused  and  looked  around  on  the  audience  as  if  in 
search  of  sympathy.  Padgett  still  regarded  the  passing 
clouds  curiously,  and  the  crowd  in  the  court  room  waited 
breathlessly  for  the  culmination. 

"It  was  a  very  little  child,"  said  Vanderlyn,  smiling  a 
little,  as  though  ashamed  to  confess  how  tenderly  he  treas 
ured  the  memory  of  the  baby  he  had  rescued.  "Why,  gen 
tlemen,"  turning  to  the  jury  in  a  deprecating  way,  "it  was 
the  smallest  baby  you  most  ever  saw,  and  then — well,  I 
declare  to  you,  gentlemen,  it  was  so  thin  that  its  eyes  looked 
to  be  twice  their  natural  size.  It  appeared  to  be  always 
expecting  somebody.  When  the  wind  blew  through  the 
trees,  the  child  would  come  closer  to  me;  and  if  one  of  the 
horses  whickered,  it  would  cry  and  hold  out  its  hands  for 
me  to  take  it.  It  was  a  wonderful  baby,  gentlemen,"  paus 
ing  and  smiling  as  if  somewhat  embarrassed.  "He  was  a 


Early  Literary  Efforts  419 

good  deal  of  trouble  at  first;  but  after  awhile  he  wasn't 
any  trouble  at  all,  and  it  wasn't  many  weeks  before  he  got 
to  be  the  cutest  young  one  you  ever  saw.  He  got  fat  by 
inches,  and  then  he  kept  getting  fatter  and  fatter,  until  he 
came  to  be  the  rosiest  baby  that  ever  traveled.  His  eyes 
got  bright,  and  his  hair  got  curly,  and  the  women  folks  along 
the  road  used  to  snatch  him  up  and  kiss  him  until  he'd  be 
mad,  and  then  they'd  snatch  him  up  and  kiss  him  until 
they'd  get  him  in  a  good  humor.  And  it  didn't  take  much/' 
the  great  giant  of  a  man  continued,  laughing  to  himself,  "to 
get  him  in  a  good  humor.  You'd  have  to  go  a  day's  journey, 
gentlemen,  before  you'd  find  as  lively  a  chap  as  that  baby 
was." 

"Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  said  Padgett,  his  cool,  unsympathetic 
voice  jarring  upon  everybody  except  the  Judge  and  lawyers, 
"you  are  not  exactly  answering  my  question.  What  be 
came  of  this  wonderful  baby?" 

"That  child,  gentlemen,"  continued  Vanderlyn,  ignoring 
Padgett  altogether  and  addressing  himself  to  the  jury,  "that 
child  traveled  with  me  in  that  wagon  for  months  and 
months.  He  was  the  only  company  I  had,  and  by  and  by  he 
got  to  be  so  much  company  that  I  couldn't  get  on  well  with 
out  him.  When  I  made  a  trade  with  a  man,  Jack  always  put 
his  lip  in,  and  he  had  the  last  word  in  spite  of  all  I  could 
do." 

"What  did  you  say  his  name  was  ?"  asked  Padgett,  brush 
ing  an  imaginary  speck  of  dust  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"Jack." 

"An  excellent  name,  Mr.  Vanderlyn.  I  will  try  to  remem 
ber  it.  Go  on  with  your  story." 

"When  it  got  cold,"  continued  Vanderlyn  in  an  argumen 
tative  way,  "that  boy  would  scrouge  up  to  me  under  the 
blankets,  and  when  it  got  hot  he  would  kick  like  a  Kentucky 
mule.  I  was  always  in  luck  when  that  boy  was  in  the  wag 
on.  I  never  made  a  bad  trade,  and  I  never  got  worsted  in  a 
bargain.  Somehow  the  people  seemed  to  say  to  themselves : 
'Well,  old  man,  we  won't  take  advantage  of  a  fellow  that's 
got  a  boy  like  that.'  And  they  didn't.  We  made  money, 
Jack  and  me ;  and  we  traveled  up  and  down  the  country 
until  everybody  knew  us,  and  it  was  'Jack  and  Dan'  from 
North  Carolina  to  the  Mississippi  River." 


420  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Do  gunmakers  peddle  tobacco  often  and  with  as  much 
success?"  interrupted  Padgett. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  replied  the  other.  "There  were 
none  of  them  peddling  along  with  me." 

The  fair  Katherine  Underwood  wanted  to  applaud,  but 
propriety  restrained  her.  Padgett  still  gazed  at  the  curd- 
like  clouds  that  deployed  past  the  window. 

"Once  more,  Mr.  Vanderlyn,"  he  asked,  toying  carelessly 
with  the  leaves  of  an  open  book,  "what  became  of  the 
child  ?•' 

"I  kept  him,"  replied  the  other  promptly,  his  mind  divert 
ed  from  the  story  he  was  telling. 

"You  kept  him?" 

"Yes,  sir.  From  that  day  to  this  he  hasn't  been  out  of 
my  sight  long  at  a  time." 

"Does  your  son  know  of  this?"  asked  Padgett. 

"What  son?" 

"Why,  Jack  Vanderlyn." 

"I  haven't  got  any  son,"  said  Vanderlyn,  stammering  a 
little.  "Jack  is  the  baby  I  was  telling  you  about." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Padgett.  Then,  turning  to  Emory 
Reed :  "The  witness  is  with  you." 

But  Emory  Reed  had  no  cross-examination  to  make.  He 
had  consulted  frequently  with  Jim  Ashfield,  but  that  worthy 
was  sullen  and  defiant. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  young  Reed,  rising,  "I 
have  no  questions  to  ask  the  witness." 

"Have  you  any  other  witnesses?"  asked  the  Judge,  who, 
having  forgotten  to  fan  himself  during  the  examination  of 
Vanderlyn,  seemed  to  be  anxious  to  make  up  for  lost  op 
portunities. 

"One  more,  your  honor,"  said  Padgett.  "Mr.  Sheriff,  call 
'Cindy  Ashfield." 

Whereupon  Colonel  Pitts,  the  sheriff,  marched  to  the  door 
with  a  consequential  air  and,  calling  the  name  of  'Cindy 
Ashfield,  gave  his  stentorian  voice  to  the  winds.  He  did 
not  have  occasion  to  repeat  the  call.  Appearing  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  the  throng,  as  though  she  had  dropped  from 
the  skies,  'Cindy  Ashfield,  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand, 
advanced  to  the  witness  stand.  A  more  forlorn-looking 
object  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  than  this  tall,  pale 


Early  Literary  Efforts  421 

woman,  who,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
elbowed  her  way  through  the  crowded  corrider  and  passed 
slowly  down  the  aisles.  There  was  a  little  thrill  of  pity 
among  the  men  and  a  feeling  of  mingled  curiosity  and  shame 
among  the  women  as  she  appeared.  She  stood  before  that 
large  multitude  with  the  air  of  simplicity  common  to  those 
whose  self-consciousness  either  suffering  or  experience  has 
annihilated.  Somehow  it  seemed  that  in  touching  hands 
with  sorrow  she  had  received  the  inheritance  of  indifference. 
It  was  observed  that  she  did  not  once  glance  in  the  direction 
of  her  brother;  nor  did  he,  save  for  one  brief  moment,  turn 
his  eyes  upon  her.  To  all  appearance,  he  grew  more  mo 
rose.  Some  say  that  he  grew  a  shade  paler;  but  that  is 
mere  tradition,  the  statement  of  those  who,  like  Miss  Vic 
toria  Sparks,  saw  a  sensation  in  every  sunbeam.  My  opin 
ion,  based  upon  the  recollection  of  some  of  the  members  of 
the  Rockville  bar  who  were  present,  is  that  Ashfield  paid  as 
little  attention  to  his  sister  on  the  witness  stand  as  he  did 
when  she  was  in  her  cabin  cooking  his  scanty  meals. 
Whether  he  had  faith  in  her  devotion  or  contempt  for  her 
testimony  or  was  utterly  careless  as  to  the  result  will  never 
be  known,  but  it  is  certain  that  he  betrayed  no  unusual  emo 
tion  when  she  made  her  appearance. 

But  a  great  change  came  over  Padgett.  He  no  longer 
looked  at  the  clouds.  His  superciliousness  disappeared.  He 
turned  to  the  woman  with  a  smile,  provided  her  with  a 
chair,  handed  her  a  fan,  gave  her  a  glass  of  water,  and  said 
something  to  her  that  brought  a  smile  to  the  sad  face.  It 
was  observed,  moreover,  that  in  conducting  the  examination 
every  word,  tone,  and  gesture  was  calculated  to  subtract 
something  from  the  embarrassment  she  might  naturally  feel 
under  the  circumstances. 

The  witness  was  sworn.  Meanwhile  Padgett  appeared  to 
be  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  a  little  slip  of  paper  which 
he  had  found  in  his  vest  pocket.  Having  apparently  mas 
tered  its  contents,  he  rolled  it  into  a  little  ball,  glanced  at  it 
vaguely,  and  began  the  examination. 

'  'Cindy,"  said  he  as  friendly  and  as  familiarly  as  if  he 
had  been  seated  at  her  own  fireside,  "do  you  know  a  man 
named  Vanderlyn?" 

"Yes,  sir/' 


422  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Do  you  see  him  now  ?    Look  around." 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  him,"  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the 
witness  who  had  just  taken  his  seat. 

'  'Cindy/'  said  Padgett,  somewhat  apologetically,  "we  will 
have  to  go  over  a  good  deal  of  ground  together,  you  and  me. 
Do  you  remember  when  your  brother  stole  Judge  Walthall's 
baby  ?" 

The  woman  brushed  a  crisp  of  the  gray  hair,  that  had 
fluttered  down  into  her  face,  impatiently  away.  "I  do,  sir." 

"Do  you  remember  any  of  the  circumstances,  'Cindy? 
The  jury  would  like  to  have  them.  It  was  a  very  small 
child,  I  am  told." 

"Yes,  sir ;  mighty  small." 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  little  child?" 

XXVIII 

The  woman  looked  around  the  crowded  court  room  as  if 
in  search  of  some  avenue  of  escape.  Then  her  eyes  sought 
the  floor,  and  she  began  to  tie  and  untie  a  never-ending  knot 
in  her  bonnet  strings  in  a  nervous  and  embarrassed  way. 
Padgett  did  not  hurry  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  did  not 
seem  at  all  interested  in  her  reply.  While  she  stood  hesitat 
ing  and  confused,  he  sauntered  toward  the  bench  and  said 
something  to  the  Judge  which  caused  that  functionary  to 
frown  and  nod  his  head  in  a  manner  surprisingly  emphatic, 
and  it  was  noted  by  those  who  had  a  knack  of  observing 
small  things  that  the  fan  which  dropped  from  the  Judge's 
hand  when  the  young  counselor  attracted  his  attention  was 
not  afterwards  resumed  during  the  proceedings.  Returning 
where  he  could  face  the  window  and  the  witness,  Padgett 
repeated  his  question  as  though  it  had  occurred  to  him  for 
the  first  time. 

;<  'Cindy/'  he  asked,  "did  you  ever  have  a  little  child?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  cried  the  woman,  weeping  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

He  waited  a  little  until  she  was  calmer  and  then  contin 
ued:  "If  it  is  not  too  much  trouble  to  you,  'Cindy,  I  would 
be  glad  to  have  you  tell  the  court  and  the  jury  about  your 
little  baby.  I  want  you  to  tell  it  in  your  own  way." 

There  was  a  deep  hush  upon  the  audience.  Judge  Wal- 
thall,  who  was  sitting  within  the  bar,  by  holding  his  chair 


Early  Literary  Efforts 

sheer  above  his  head  moved  nearer  to  the  witness,  and 
those  who  could  hitched  up  their  chairs  a  trifle  closer.  The 
witness  appeared  to  be  much  embarrassed.  She  picked  nerv 
ously  at  her  bonnet  strings  and  more  than  once  brushed 
imaginary  hairs  from  before  her  eyes. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said  finally,  "I  did  have  a  little  baby.  It 
was  born  mine,  and  it  stayed  mine."  She  paused  again  as 
if  carefully  surveying  the  ground  she  was  going  over. 

"What  became  of  the  child,  'Cindy?"  asked  Padgett  gen 
tly. 

"It  died,"  she  replied  gently. 

The  young  lawyer  turned  once  more  toward  the  window 
and  scanned  the  clouds  and  the  sky  as  though  they  con 
tained  the  solution  of  the  problem  that  was  vexing  his  soul. 
"You  say  you  remember  when  Jim  stole  Judge  Walthall's 
child?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Yes,  sir,  as  well  as  if  it  was  yistiddy." 

"What  did  your  brother  do  with  the  stolen  child?" 

"I  dunno,  sir.    I  never  seen  it." 

Judge  Walthall  rose  in  his  place,  pale  and  trembling,  and 
stood  there  during  the  remainder  of  the  examination. 

•'You  say  you  never  saw  Judge  Walthall's  child?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  the  understanding  was  that  Jim  left  the  child  in 
your  charge  and  that  you  restored  it." 

The  woman  drew  herself  up  a  little,  her  eyes  blazing  like 
coals  of  fire,  and  said :  "It  was  a  lie." 

"That  was  my  opinion,"  replied  Padgett.  "Well,  now, 
'Cindy,  you  must  tell  us  about  it,"  he  continued.  "We  want 
to  know  the  truth  of  this." 

Somehow  the  woman,  remembering  the  great  sacrifice 
she  had  made  for  her  vagabond  brother,  forgot  her  embar 
rassment.  The  long-subdued  passion  of  her  nature  flared 
up  and  carried  everything  before  it.  Upon  the  stage  she 
would  have  been  regarded  by  the  critics  as  the  very  queen 
of  tragedy;  but  standing  where  she  was,  the  majority  of 
the  multitude  that  hemmed  her  in  looked  upon  her  as  an 
interesting  but  very  commonplace  witness. 

"What  must  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Padgett?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  your  little  baby,  'Cindy,"  the 
young  lawyer  said  gently. 


424  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"I  did  have  a  baby/'  she  said  fiercely,  "an'  Jim  there 
knows  it.  He  came  to  me,  gentlemen" — and  turning  sud 
denly  to  the  jury — "an'  he  took  my  baby  an'  give  it  to  Judge 
Walthall.  He  said  the  people  would  kill  him  ef  he  didn't, 
an'  I  knowed  they  would." 

At  this  point  Judge  Walthall  exclaimed:  "May  it  please 
the  court,"  he  said,  "this  is  most  extraordinary.  I  desire" — 

"Your  honor,"  said  Padgett,  "it  is  our  desire  that  the 
witness  not  be  interrupted.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  have 
any  confusion.  The  story  this  witness  has  to  tell  may  be  of 
peculiar  and  absorbing  interest  to  Judge  Walthall,  but  the 
State  is  searching  for  a  basis  for  justice.  Your  honor  will 
perceive  at  once  how  injudicious  it  would  be  to  interrupt  the 
witness." 

"The  court,"  said  Judge  Vardeman  sternly,  "will  have  no 
interruptions  from  any  source.  Mr.  Sheriff,  you  will  pre 
serve  order." 

Whereupon  Sheriff  Pitts  and  his  chosen  bailiffs  rapped 
upon  the  floor  with  their  staffs ;  and  Judge  Walthall,  with  an 
appealing  look  at  the  witness,  refrained  from  further  ques 
tioning. 

'  'Cindy,"  said  Padgett,  "the  jury  are  acquainted  with  the 
main  facts  in  regard  to  the  kidnaping  of  Judge  Walthall's 
child.  What  we  desire  to  know  is  this :  Did  your  brother 
place  that  child  in  your  charge?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  child  after  it  was  stolen?" 

"No,  sir." 

"The  child,  then,  that  your  brother  restored  to  Judge 
Walthall  was  yours?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

There  was  considerable  sensation  in  the  court  room  as 
the  witness,  in  her  blunt  and  dramatic  manner,  made  this 
reply,  and  Judge  Walthall  once  more  made  an  attempt  to 
say  something.  It  was  an  ineffectual  one,  however.  Sheriff 
Pitts  and  his  able  coadjutors,  by  making  more  noise  than 
the  crowd,  succeeded  in  keeping  down  a  disturbance.  When 
everything  was  quiet,  Padgett  continued. 

"You  say  your  child  died,  'Cindy  ?" 

"Yes,  sir."' 

"Where  did  it  die?" 


Early  Literary  Efforts  425 

"At  Judge  Walthall's  house." 

"Then  the  child  he  thought  was  his  was  yours?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"That  will  do.    The  witness  is  with  the  other  side." 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  that  ensued  the  other 
side  was  not  heard ;  and  'Cindy  Ashfield  stepped  down  from 
the  stand  and  was  immediately  surrounded  by  an  eager 
crowd,  prominent  among  whom  was  Judge  Walthall.  After 
this  there  was  a  recess  of  the  court,  and  when  it  reassembled 
Vanderlyn  was  recalled. 

"Mr.  Vanderlyn/'  said  Padgett,  "do  you  know  Judge 
Walthall?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"In  Rockville." 

"Where  else  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"In  Virginia." 

"Did  you  know  his  brother?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Padgett  consulted  with 
the  Judge.  Finally  he  said,  turning  to  the  witness :  "What 
is  your  name  ?" 

"If  the  court  please,"  said  Vanderlyn,  "this  is  not  to  the 
purpose.  It  has  no  bearing  whatever  upon  the  case  under 
consideration." 

Padgett  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"The  witness  must  answer  the  question/'  said  the  court 
emphatically. 

Vanderlyn  hesitated,  and  Padgett  repeated  the  question. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Calhoun  Walthall."  The  crowd  seemed  stunned  by  the 
reply  and  sat  breathless. 

"You  are  Judge  Walthall's  brother?"  the  young  lawyer 
inquired. 

''Yes,"  replied  Vanderlyn,  "and  Jack  is  his  son." 

With  that  there  was  a  shout  in  the  court  room  that  the 
bailiff  could  not  control ;  and  Judge  Walthall,  the  tears 
streaming  down  his  face,  made  his  way  to  the  witness  stand 
and  placed  his  trembling  hand  in  the  firm  grasp  of  his 
brother. 


426  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 


And  this  was  the  romance  of  Rockville!  To  most  of  the 
people  it  seemed  more  like  a  dream  than  a  romance,  and 
Jack  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  protest  against  it. 
When  the  facts  were  made  known  to  him,  he  went  into  a 
wild  fit  of  weeping  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"I  don't  want  anybody  but  Dan,"  he  cried  convulsively. 
"If  Dan  ain't  mine,  then  I  don't  want  anybody." 

Vanderlyn  himself  seemed  to  be  unusually  cheerful.  He 
was  exceedingly  loquacious  and  seemed  to  drop  back  into 
his  old  eccentricities  of  speech  and  manner. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Jack,"  he  said  in  reply  to  the  tearful 
complaints  of  the  boy,  "we'll  have  lots  of  fun  together  yet. 
I'm  your  uncle,  you  know." 

"I  don't  want  no  uncle,"  the  boy  cried.  "I  don't  want 
anybody  but  you." 

"Well,  you  have  had  me  a  long  time,  Jack ;  you  must  re 
member  that.  You  never  had  a  better  uncle  than  I'll  be,  old 
man." 

"I  tell  you,  you  ain't  my  uncle,  and  I  won't  have  it  so.  I 
want  you  to  be  what  you  always  was." 

"I  was  always  your  uncle,  Jack,"  said  the  other  cheerily. 
"You  can  be  anything  you  want  to." 

"Then  you  must  go  away,"  said  the  boy  petulantly.  "I 
can  be  my  own  uncle." 

"That  you  can,  Jack,"  said  the  other  cheerily.  "You  can 
be  anything  you  want  to." 

Thus  these  two  quarreled  until  the  mother  put  in  an  ap 
pearance. 

"My  darling,"  she  said,  "you  must  go  with  me." 

Still  weeping,  the  boy  flung  himself  in  her  arms,  and  the 

1"Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  compiler  of  the  serial  known  as  The 
Romance  of  Rockville'  was  unavoidably  absent  during  the  greater 
part  of  last  week,  engaged  in  reporting  the  romance  of  Barnesville, 
the  concluding  ( ! )  installment  is  postponed  to  next  week.  The 
author  fondly  hopes  that  this  intermission  will  prove  a  pleasant 
relaxation  to  the  already  overstrained  minds  of  the  readers  of  the 
weekly  Constitution." — Weekly  Constitution,  September  17,  1878, 
editorial  column. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  427 

trouble  was  over.  With  one  word  she  had  conquered  the 
child. 

Thus  it  was  that  Rockville  had  its  romance,  though  to 
some  of  the  principal  actors  it  appeared  to  be  a  dream. 
Thus  it  was  with  Tiny  Padgett.  He  sat  upon  the  wooden 
bench  opposite  Miss  Jane  Ferryman's  cottage  night  after 
night  and,  smoking  his  fragrant  cigars,  wondered  if  he  had 
not  been  asleep.  He  had  cut  loose  from  his  old  companions 
and  was  no  longer  the  central  figure  of  the  small  carousals 
that  were  of  nightly  occurrence  in  Rockville.  He  was  not 
the  same.  Reserve  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him, 
and  quiet  claimed  him  for  her  own.  Not  a  night  passed 
that  he  did  not  sit  and  smoke  upon  the  old  wooden  bench 
in  front  of  Vanderlyn's  shop  and  opposite  Miss  Ferryman's. 
He  seemed  to  be  happier  there  than  anywhere  else.  He 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  quiet  that  fell  upon  that  particular  por 
tion  of  the  little  town.  He  sat  there  night  after  night;  and 
passers-by,  early  or  late,  grew  familiar  with  the  small,  slight 
figure  partially  concealed  by  the  deep  shadows  of  night. 
They  came  to  know  him  by  the  bright  red  spark  that  shone 
from  his  cigar,  and  nearly  all  who  passed  that  way  flung 
him  some  sort  of  salutation. 

One  memorable  night,  not  long  after  the  trial,  he  sat  in 
his  accustomed  place  smoking  and  thinking — always  think 
ing.  It  was  an  Indian  summer  night.  The  breeze  that 
rustled  in  and  out  the  chinaberry  trees  was  as  balmy  as  that 
of  spring,  and  in  the  far  fields  of  heaven  the  stars  bloomed 
as  fair  and  as  beautiful  as  if  the  earth  beneath  them  were 
not  full  of  misery,  trouble,  and  despair.  The  dying  summer 
filled  the  air  with  the  fragrance  of  a  new  life,  and  nature 
seemed  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  renewing  her  youth.  Mark 
ing  these  things  in  a  vague,  careless  way,  Padgett  heard  the 
sound  of  voices,  and  presently  he  saw  a  man  and  a  woman 
walking  down  the  street  toward  him.  It  was  Vanderlyn 
and  the  schoolmistress.  They  walked  slowly,  as  if  by  that 
means  they  would  prolong  the  present  and  enjoy  it. 

"It  is  all  so  new  and  strange,"  the  schoolmistress  was  say 
ing  when  the  two  came  within  hearing,  "that  I  cannot  under 
stand  it." 

Vanderlyn    laughed.      "Everything    must    be    new    and 


428  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

strange  at  some  time  or  other/'  he  said,  and  then  added 
quickly,  "except  love.  It  is  always  old." 

"O  no,"  she  replied;  "it  is  new  to  me,  and  I  think  it 
would  be  new  to  Mr.  Padgett." 

"New  to  Padgett !  It  is  older  with  him  than  with  any  of 
us.  He  was  cut  out  for  a  hero,"  Vanderlyn  continued 
warmly. 

The  twain  passed  on;  and  Padgett,  catching  a  glimpse  of 
their  happiness  even  in  the  dark,  smiled  and  sighed.  They 
were  his  friends.  They  passed  on  and  out  of  sight.  Pres 
ently  the  door  of  Miss  Jane's  little  cottage  opened,  and  out 
came  Nora  and  the  schoolmaster.  They  said  nothing,  but 
went  quietly  down  the  street.  The  young  lawyer,  gazing 
after  them,  knew  what  the  result  would  be. 

"Happiness  is  abroad  to-night,"  he  said,  laughing  lightly, 
"but  she  goes  in  another  direction.  It  is  better  so.  She 
would  find  in  me  an  entire  stranger.  I  should  be  restive 
under  the  restraints  of  content." 

Once  more  the  voices  broke  in  upon  his  meditations. 
Vanderlyn  and  the  schoolmistress  came  slowly  back. 

"Then  you  are  not  going  away?"  The  voice  was  the  voice 
of  Kate  Underwood,  and  the  reply  came  from  Vanderlyn. 

"How  can  I  when  I  have  so  much  to  live  for  here?" 

They  passed  on  and  disappeared,  and  another  couple  took 
their  places.  Padgett  would  have  known  Nora's  laugh 
among  a  thousand.  He  knew,  too,  its  import.  He  knew  that 
the  schoolmaster  had  conquered.  They  came  up  the  street 
hand  in  hand,  the  one  serious  and  thoughtful  and  the  other 
intoxicated  with  happiness.  They  passed  into  the  yard,  and 
the  door  of  the  cottage  closed  upon  them.  Tiny,  watching 
the  stars,  wafted  them  a  blessing.  Finally  he  flung  away 
his  cigar.  It  fell  in  the  sand  and  shone  for  a  moment  a 
bright  and  burning  spark.  Then  it  began  to  fade,  and  its 
color  mingled  with  the  dust  by  which  it  was  surrounded. 
Padgett  arose,  flung  a  kiss  toward  Nora's  window,  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  street.  Days  afterwards  a  hunting 
party,  camping  upon  the  banks  of  the  Oconee,  found  a  bun 
dle  of  clothing  that  they  knew  belonged  to  the  young  lawyer, 
and  pinned  to  it  was  a  card  bearing  this  inscription :  "Tins 

IS  THE  END." 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 
BOOKS  IN  WHICH  APPEAR  SKETCHES  OF  HARRIS 

AVARY,  MRS.  MYRTA  (LOCKETT).  "Joel  Chandler  Harris 
and  His  Home :  A  Sketch."  Atlanta,  Ga. :  Appeal  Publish 
ing  Co.  1913.  38  pages.  Authorized  by  the  Uncle  Remus 
Memorial  Association.  Eleven  portraits  of  Mr.  Harris, 
showing  him  from  boyhood.  Thirty  illustrations.  The  most 
extensive  of  the  various  sketches. 

Bardeen,  Charles  William.  "Authors'  Birthdays."  Sec 
ond  series.  Syracuse,  N.  Y. :  C.  W.  Bardeen.  1899.  459 
pages.  Standard  Teachers'  Library.  "Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris,"  pages  427-459- 

Baskervill,  William  Malone.  "Southern  Writers:  Bio 
graphical  and  Critical  Studies."  Volume  I.  Nashville, 
Tenn. :  Publishing  House  M.  E.  Church,  South.  1897.  404 
pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  41-88.  The  best  crit 
ical  appreciation  to  date.  First  issued  in  pamphlet  form, 
July,  1896,  by  same  Publishing  House. 

Bradley,  Henry  Stiles.  "Library  of  Southern  Literature." 
New  Orleans,  Atlanta,  etc. :  Martin  &  Hoyt  Co.  1908-1913. 
"Joel  Chandler  Harris."  Volume  V.,  pages  2111-2151. 

Brainerd,  Erastus.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris  at  Home." 
(See  Gilder,  J.  L.  "Authors  at  Home."  Pages  111-124. 
Wessels.  1902.)  Same  article  appeared  in  the  Critic,  May 
16,  23,  1885,  Volume  VI.,  pages  229-241. 

"Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature."  (See 
Smith,  C.  Alphonso.) 

Davidson,  James  Wood.  "The  Living  Writers  of  the 
South."  New  York:  Carleton.  1869.  xvii+635  pages. 
Out  of  print.  (See  references  in  the  present  volume.) 
"Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  236-239. 

Derby,  James  Cephas.  "Fifty  Years  among  Authors, 
Books,  and  Publishers."  New  York:  G.  W.  Carleton  & 
Co.  1884.  vii-j-739  pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages 
433-440.  (Some  account  of  Derby's  visit  to  Mr.  Harris, 
arranging  for  first  volume  of  Uncle  Remus  stories.) 

(429) 


430  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Fiske,  Horace  Spencer.  "Provincial  Types  in  American 
Fiction."  Chautauqua,  N.  Y. :  Chautauqua  Press.  1903. 
264  pages.  Chautauqua  Home  Reading  Series.  "Joel 
Chandler  Harris/'  pages  106-117. 

Halsey,  Francis  Whiting,  editor.  "Authors  of  Our  Day 
in  Their  Homes."  New  York:  Pott.  1902.  "Joel  Chan 
dler  Harris  in  Atlanta,  Ga.,"  pages  157-171.  (These  papers 
were  printed  originally  in  the  New  York  Times' s  "Saturday 
Review  of  Books.") 

Harkins,  Edward  Francis.  "Little  Pilgrimages  among 
the  Men  Who  Have  Written  Famous  Books."  Boston :  L. 
C.  Page  &  Co.  1902.  332  pages.  Booklovers'  Series. 
"Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  123-137. 

Holliday,  Carl.  "History  of  Southern  Literature."  New 
York :  Neale.  1906.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  380-382. 

Kellner,  Leon.  "Geschichte  der  Nordamerikanischen 
Literatur."  Berlin  and  Leipsig.  1913.  Gives  the  Tar 
Baby  story  in  German.  Translated  by  Julia  Franklin  and 
published  by  Doubleday  in  1915. 

Knight,  Lucian  Lamar.  "Reminiscences  of  Famous 
Georgians."  Atlanta,  Ga. :  Franklin-Turner  Co.  1907-08. 
Two  volumes.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  Volume  L,  pages 
482-492. 

Lee,  Ivy  Ledbetter,  compiler.  "Uncle  Remus."  Joel 
Chandler  Harris  as  seen  and  remembered  by  a  few  of  his 
friends,  including  a  memorial  sermon  by  the  Rev.  James  W. 
Lee,  D.D.,  and  a  poem  by  Frank  L.  Stanton.  Privately 
printed.  1908.  xv-j-i^o  pages.  An  excellent  sketch  by  a 
personal  friend,  with  facsimile  pages  from  The  Countryman. 

Lee,  James  Wideman.    (See  Lee,  Ivy  Ledbetter.) 

Orgain,  Kate  Alma.  "Southern  Authors  in  Poetry  and 
Prose."  New  York  and  Washington  :  Neale  Publishing  Co. 
1908.  233  pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  110-118. 

Pickett,  LaSalle  Corbell  ("Mrs.  G.  E.  Pickett").  "Lit 
erary  Hearthstones  of  Dixie."  Philadelphia  and  London: 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.  1912.  304  pages.  "Uncle  Remus — 
Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  151-172. 

Reed,  Wallace  Putnam,  editor.  "History  of  Atlanta, 
Georgia."  Syracuse,  N.  Y. :  D.  Mason  &  Co.  1889.  v+ 
491  pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  413-419.  By  a 
personal  friend. 


Early  Literary  Efforts  431 

Rutherford,  Mildred  Lewis.  "American  Authors."  At 
lanta,  Ga. :  Franklin  Printing  and  Publishing  Co.  1894. 
xxix-j-750  pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris/'  pages  610-614. 

Rutherford,  Mildred  Lewis.  "The  South  in  History  and 
Literature."  Atlanta,  Ga. :  Franklin-Turner  Co.  1907. 
866  pages.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris/'  pages  505-509. 

Smith,  Charles  Alphonso.  "Die  Amerikanische  Litera- 
tur."  Berlin :  Weidmann.  1912.  388  pages.  "Bibliothek 
der  Amerikanischen  Kulturgeschichte,  hrsg.,"  von  N.  M. 
Butler  und  W.  Paszkowski.  2.  Bd.  "Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris  :  Eine  Abhandlung  fiber  den  Neger  als  Literarisches  Ob- 
jekt,"  pages  288-311.  (Mr.  Smith  was  Roosevelt  Professor 
in  the  University  of  Berlin,  1910-11.) 

Smith,  Charles  Alphonso.  "Cambridge  History  of  Amer 
ican  Literature."  Published  uniformly  with  the  Cambridge 
English  Literature  Series.  A  chapter  on  Harris  by  C.  Al 
phonso  Smith. 

"South  in  the  Building  of  the  Nation,  The."  Richmond, 
Va. :  Southern  Historical  Publication  Society.  1913.  "Joel 
Chandler  Harris."  See  Index,  Volume  XIII.,  page  89. 

Toulmin,  Harry  Aubrey.  "Social  Historians."  Boston: 
R.  G.  Badger.  1911.  176  pages.  "Bibliography,"  pages 
167-171.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  pages  133-164. 

Trent,  William  Peterfield.  "Southern  Writers."  New 
York:  Macmillan.  1905.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,"  page 
423- 

Watterson,  Henry.  "Oddities  in  Southern  Life  and 
Character."  Boston:  Houghton.  1882.  "Joel  Chandler 
Harris,"  page  304. 

Wootten,  Katherine  Hinton.  "Bibliography  of  the  Works 
of  Joel  Chandler  Harris."  In  Carnegie  Library  of  Atlanta 
Bulletin,  May-June,  1907.  6  pages. 

Wright,  Henrietta  Christian.  "Children's  Stories  in 
American  Literature,  1660-1896."  New  York:  C.  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons.  1895-96.  Two  volumes.  "Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris,"  Volume  II.,  pages  153-162. 

ARTICLES  IN  PERIODICALS 

Adair,  Forrest.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris."  American  Il 
lustrated  Methodist  Magazine,  October,  1899;  Volume  XL, 
page  124.  Interesting  article  by  a  personal  friend. 


432  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Arms,  Ethel.  "Leaves  from  a  Reporter's  Notebook." 
Interview  with  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  National  Magazine 
(Boston),  February,  1905;  Volume  XXL,  pages  515-517. 

^'Author  of  'Uncle  Remus/''  American  Review  of  Re 
views,  August,  1908;  Volume  XXXVIII. ,  pages  214,  215. 

Avary,  Mrs.  Myrta  (Lockett).  "The  Wren's  Nest' 
Preserved  as  a  Memorial."  Book  News  Monthly,  May, 
1913;  Volume  XXXL,  pages  665-668. 

Baker,  Ray  Stannard.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris."  Outlook, 
November  5,  1904;  Volume  LXXVIIL,  pages  594-603.  A 
splendid  sketch. 

Ball,  Sumter  Mays.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris."  Book 
News  Monthly,  January,  1909;  Volume  XXVIL,  pages  311- 
316. 

Baskervill,  William  Malone.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris." 
Chautauquan,  October,  1896;  Volume  XXIV.,  pages  62- 
67. 

Brainerd,  Erastus.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris  (Uncle  Re 
mus)  at  Atlanta."  Critic,  May  16,  23,  1885;  Volume  VI., 
pages  229,  230,  241. 

"Brer  Rabbit  and  Mr.  Fox  as  Footlight  Favorites  in 
London."  Current  Opinion,  July,  1914;  Volume  LVIL, 
page  30. 

Brown,  Calvin  S.,  Jr.  Sketch.  Christian  Advocate, 
Nashville,  Tenn.,  October  17,  1891. 

Christian  Work,  New  York.  Sketch.  September  27, 
1894. 

Coleman,  Charles  W.  "The  Recent  Movement  in  South 
ern  Literature."  Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine,  May, 
1887;  Volume  LXXIV.,  pages  837-855.  "Joel  Chandler 
Harris,"  pages  844-848. 

Crane,  T.  F.  "Plantation  Folklore."  Popular  Science 
Monthly,  April,  1881 ;  Volume  XVIIL,  pages  824-833.  "An 
examination  of  these  [Uncle  Remus's]  fables  in  their  rela 
tions  to  the  similar  tales  of  other  countries." 

Ellis,  Leonora  B.  "Harris  and  the  Children."  Book 
News  Monthly,  January,  1909;  Volume  XXVIL,  pages  321- 

323- 

"First  Stories  of  Uncle  Remus."  Current  Literature, 
December,  1900;  Volume  XXIX.,  pages  708,  709. 

Garnsey,  John  Henderson.     "Joel  Chandler  Harris:  A 


Bibliography  433 

Character  Sketch."  Book  Buyer,  March,  1896;  New  Series, 
Volume  XIII. ,  pages  65-68.  Mr.  Garnsey  was  a  close  friend 
in  the  Harris  home  for  six  months. 

Gerber,  A.  "Uncle  Remus  Traced  to  the  Old  World." 
Journal  of  American  Folklore,  October-December,  1893; 
Volume  VI.,  page  245.  Sources  and  variants  of  twenty  or 
thirty  Remus  stories. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler.  "An  Accidental  Author."  Liter 
ary  autobiography.  Lippincott's  Monthly  Magazine,  April, 
1886;  Volume  XXXVIL,  pages  417-420. 

Harris,  Mrs.  L.  H.  "The  Passing  of  'Uncle  Remus/  " 
Independent,  July  23,  1908;  Volume  LXV.,  pages  190- 
192. 

Hawthorne,  H.  "Teller  of  Folk  and  Fairy  Tales."  St. 
Nicholas,  March,  1915;  Volume  XLIL,  pages  453-455- 

Horton,  Mrs.  Thaddeus.  "The  Most  Modest  Author  in 
America."  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  May,  1907;  Volume 
XXIV.,  page  17.  This  article  also  appeared  in  the  Atlanta 
Constitution,  May  5,  1907. 

"How  Joel  Chandler  Harris  Came  to  Write  the  Uncle 
Remus  Stories."  Current  Literature,  August,  1908;  Vol 
ume  V.,  page  164.  Inadequate  account. 

"Joel  Chandler  Harris."  Nation,  July  9,  1908;  Volume 
LXXXVIL,  pages  30,  31. 

Knight,  Lucian  Lamar.  "Uncle  Remus."  (See  "Men 
and  Women  of  the  Craft."  Bohemian  Magazine,  Easter, 
1901.  Fort  Worth,  Tex.) 

Lee,  J.  W.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris."  Century  Magazine, 
April,  1909;  Volume  LXXVIL,  pages  891-897. 

"Letter  to  President  Roosevelt  and  His  Response."  Un 
cle  Remus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  September,  1908;  Volume 
XXIV.,  pages  5,  6. 

McClurg,  Alexander  C.  "Old-Time  Plantation  Life: 
On  the  Plantation."  Review.  Dial  (Chicago),  June,  1892; 
Volume  XIII.,  pages  46-49. 

McQueen,  A.  "Teller  of  Tales."  Poem.  Lippincott's 
Monthly  Magazine,  October,  1911;  Volume  LXXXVIIL, 
page  543. 

Marquis,  Don.    "The  Farmer  of  Snap  Bean  Farm."    Un 
cle  Remus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  September,  1908 ;  Volume 
XXIV.,  page  7. 
28 


434  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Merriam,  Mrs.  M.  F.  "At  Snap  Bean  Farm."  Southern 
Ruralist,  October  15,  1913;  Volume  XIX.,  page  22  (214). 
With  portrait. 

Pickett,  L.  C.  "Uncle  Remus."  Lippincott's  Monthly 
Magazine,  April,  1912;  Volume  LXXXIX.,  pages  572-578. 

Reed,  Wallace  Putnam.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris,  Humor 
ist  and  Novelist."  With  portrait.  Literature  (a  weekly 
illustrated  magazine  published  by  Alden),  October  27,  1888. 
Splendid  sketch  by  a  personal  friend ;  gives  some  details  of 
Mr.  Harris's  early  life. 

Rice,  Giantland;  Thomas  E.  Watson;  Frank  L.  Stanton. 
Tributes  to  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  Uncle  Remus' s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  September,  1908 ;  Volume  XXIV.,  page  8. 

Rogers,  Joseph  M.  Sketch;  follows  that  by  Leonora  B. 
Ellis  in  same  issue  of  Book  News  Monthly. 

Stanton,  Frank  L. ;  Grantland  Rice;  Thomas  E.  Watson. 
Tributes  to  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  Uncle  Remus' s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  September,  1908 ;  Volume  XXIV.,  page  8. 

Stovall,  Genie  O.  Sketch  quoting  Mr.  Harris  in  regard 
to  his  early  life.  Children's  Visitor,  November  23,  1902. 

Ticknor,  Caroline.  "Glimpses  of  the  Author  of  'Uncle 
Remus/  "  Bookman,  August,  1908;  Volume  XXVII.,  pages 

Ticknor,  Caroline.  "The  Man  Harris :  A  Study  in  Per 
sonality."  Book  News  Monthly,  January,  1909;  Volume 
XX VII.,  pages  317-320- 

"Uncle  Remus."  Review  of  book.  Nation,  December  2, 
1880;  Volume  XXXL,  page  398. 

"Uncle  Remus."  Review  of  book.  Public  Opinion, 
March  26,  1881 ;  Volume  XXXIX.,  page  391. 

"Uncle  Remus,"  Review  of  book.  Spectator,  April  2, 
1881 ;  Volume  LIV.,  pages  445,  446. 

"Uncle  Remus."  On  the  death  of  Mr.  Harris.  Nation, 
July  9,  1908 ;  Volume  LXXXVIL,  pages  26,  27. 

"Uncle  Remus."  Harper's  Weekly,  July  n,  1908;  Vol 
ume  LIL,  page  29. 

"Uncle  Remus."  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  October, 
1908. 

Watson,  Thomas  E. ;  Frank  L.  Stanton ;  Grantland  Rice. 
Tributes  to  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  Uncle  Remus' s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  September,  1908 ;  Volume  XXIV.,  page  8. 


Bibliography  435 

"Young  Minstrels."  Collier's  Weekly,  September  19, 
1914;  Volume  LIV.,  page  10. 

ARTICLES  IN  NEWSPAPERS 

Atlanta  Constitution.  'The  Constitutional  Staff."  "S. 
S.,"  in  the  Philadelphia  Evening  Telegram.  "Old  Si"  and 
"Uncle  Remus"  contrasted  in  personal  appearance,  etc. 
March  22,  1879. 

Atlanta  Constitution.  "Uncle  Remus  in  Brief."  April 
20,  1879.  Supplement.  Copied  from  New  Haven  Register 
as  taken  from  "advance  sheets"  of  H.  Clay  Lukens's  "Don't 
Give  It  Away."  Never  published  (?  ).  Especially  interest 
ing  because  written  by  Sam  Small  ("Old  Si").  Harris  is 
praised  especially  for  his  dialect  poetry. 

Atlanta  Constitution.  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Horton.  "The 
Most  Modest  Author  in  America."  May  5,  1907.  This  ar 
ticle  also  appeared  in  the  Ladles'  Home  Journal,  May,  1907. 

Atlanta  Constitution.  Fred  Lewis.  "Some  Incidents  and 
Characteristics  of  Uncle  Remus."  October  7,  1906,  page  3. 

Atlanta  Constitution.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris  Summoned 
by  the  Master  of  All  Good  Workmen."  July  4,  1908;  Vol 
ume  XLL,  pages,  i,  6. 

Atlanta  Constitution.  "Letter  to  Miss  Katharine  Woot- 
ten,"  Carnegie  Library,  Atlanta,  to  thank  her  for  the  prepa 
ration  of  a  bibliography  of  the  works  of  Uncle  Remus. 
Dated  September  17,  1907.  Signed  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 
July  4,  1908 ;  Volume  XLL,  page  6.  Letter  is  in  Carnegie 
Library  of  Atlanta  Bulletin,  May-June,  1907. 

Atlanta  Georgian  and  News.  July  4,  1892.  "Chronolog 
ical  Account  of  Mr.  Harris's  Literary  Progress."  Refer 
ence  to  F.  L.  Stanton. 

Atlanta  Georgian  and  News.    July  4,  1908.    Sketch. 

Boston  Globe.  November  3,  1907.  James  B.  Morrow. 
"Mr.  Harris  Talks  of  His  Life." 

Boston  Post.  Correspondence  from  "Atlanta,  Georgia, 
September  28,  1881."  Walter  H.  Page.  Splendid  personal 
sketch  written  after  Mr.  Page  had  made  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Harris. 

Memphis  Commercial-Appeal.  Mrs.  Robert  L.  Spain. 
"Uncle  Remus  and  Snap  Bean  Farm."  Detailed  descrip 
tion  of  the  Harris  home.  November  15,  1908. 


436  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

New  York  Times.  "New  Edition  of  'Uncle  Remus/" 
October  16,  1895. 

New  York  World.  Description  of  home  and  family. 
December  4,  1892. 

London  Times.  "Joel  Chandler  Harris."  July  6,  1908, 
page  8. 

PORTRAITS 

Alkahest,  Volume  III.,  page  29.  Drawing  by  Ernest  Wil 
kinson. 

American  Illustrated  Methodist  Magazine,  October,  1899 ; 
Volume  XL,  page  124. 

Avery,  I.  W.  "History  of  the  State  of  Georgia,"  page 
624.  Photograph. 

Bookbuyer,  Volume  III.,  pages  531,  540;  February,  1896- 
January,  1897;  Volume  XIIL,  page  67.  Drawing  by  J.  H. 
Garnsey. 

Bookman,  September,  i896-February,  1897;  Volume  IV., 
page  290.  Photograph. 

Book  News,  Volume  X.,  page  429. 

Century,  November,  i9oi-April,  1902;  New  Series,  Vol 
ume  XLL,  page  61.  Photograph. 

Chautauquan,  Volume  XXIV.,  page  62. 

Critic,  January-June,  1899;  Volume  XXXIV.,  page  7. 
Photograph  of  Paul  Okerberg's  bust  of  Mr.  Harris.  This 
bust  is  now  in  the  Harris  home. 

Harper's  Monthly,  December,  i886-May,  1887;  Volume 
LXXIV.,  page  843.  Photograph. 

Ladies'  Home  Journal,  December,  I9o6-November,  1907 ; 
Volume  XXIV.,  page  17.  Photograph  with  Andrew  Carne 
gie.  This  photograph  is  in  the  Carnegie  Library  of  At 
lanta. 

Outlook,  September-December,  1904;  Volume  LXXVIIL, 
page  594.  Drawing  by  Kate  Rogers  Nowell. 

Outlook,  Volume  LXIIL,  page  772 ;  Volume  LXVL,  page 
806.  Photographs. 

Reader  Magazine,  Volume  VIII.,  page  207. 

World's  Work,  November,  1900- April,  1901 ;  Volume  I., 
page  ii.  Photograph. 

Among  the  best  portraits  of  Mr.  Harris  are  an  oil  paint 
ing  by  Theresa  Knudson  and  a  photograph  taken  with  James 


Bibliography  437 

Whitcomb  Riley  by  Stevenson,  of  Atlanta,  both  of  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  Atlanta  Carnegie  Library,  and  a  portrait 
made  by  Frances  Benjamin  Johnston  in  1906,  of  which  Mr. 
Harris  wrote  to  Miss  Johnston :  "I  have  now  found  out  for 
the  first  time  what  you  meant  by  the  twinkle.  The  twinkle 
seems  to  be  me  myself,  after  all,  and  I  have  been  going  on 
all  these  years  not  knowing  what  was  missing  from  the  pho 
tographs  I  had  taken  by  people  who  knew  nothing  about  the 
twinkle."  This  last  portrait,  along  with  a  series  of  others, 
is  reproduced  in  the  souvenir  pamphlet  issued  by  the  Uncle 
Remus  Memorial  Association. 

At  "The  Sign  of  the  Wren's  Nest"  there  are  a  number  of 
portraits,  a  bust  by  Paul  Okerberg,  and  a  bronze  bas-relief. 

BOOKS  BY  HARRIS 
(Writings  previous  to  1880,  as  given  in  the  present  volume.) 

"Aaron  in  the  Wildwoods."  Illustrated  by  Oliver  Her- 
ford.  Boston  :  Houghton.  October  4,  1897. 

"Balaam  and  His  Master,  and  Other  Sketches."  Boston : 
Houghton.  May  8,  1891.  Appeared  first  in  Century  Maga 
zine,  November,  1890- April,  1891 ;  New  Series,  Volume 
XIX.,  page  557. 

"Bishop  and  the  Boogerman."  New  York:  Doubleday. 
January  23,  1909.  Appeared  first  in  Uncle  Remus' s,  the 
Home  Magazine,  June-October,  1907. 

"Chronicles  of  Aunt  Minerva  Ann."  Illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Frost.  New  York :  Scribner's.  October  7,  1899.  Repub- 
lished  in  England. 

"Daddy  Jake,  the  Runaway,  and  Other  Short  Stories  Told 
after  Dark."  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  Kemble.  New  York: 
Century  Co.  1889,  1896,  1901. 

"Evening  Tales."  Translated  into  English  from  the 
French  of  Frederic  Ortoli.  New  York:  Scribner's.  No 
vember  n,  1893.  Joint  work  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris. 

"Free  Joe,  and  Other  Georgia  Sketches."  New  York: 
Scribner's.  December  I,  1887.  Appeared  first  in  Century 
Magazine,  November,  i8S4-April,  1885;  New  Series,  Vol 
ume  VII. ,  page  117.  Republished  in  England. 

"Gabriel  Tolliver:  A  Story  of  Reconstruction."  New 
York:  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.  July  11,  1902.  Partly  au- 


438  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

tobiographical.  Appeared  in  the  Era,  January- November, 
1902. 

"Georgia  from  the  Invasion  of  De  Soto  to  Recent  Times." 
New  York:  Appleton.  1896.  American  Book  Co.  1896. 
Stories  from  American  History  Series.  Also  published  un 
der  the  title  " Stories  of  Georgia/'  by  American  Book  Co., 
October  20,  1896.  Now  known  as  "History  of  Georgia." 

"History  of  Georgia."  (See  "Georgia  from  the  Invasion 
of  De  Soto  to  Recent  Times.") 

"Kidnaping  of  President  Lincoln,  and  Other  War  Detec 
tive  Stories."  Collection  of  stories  published  in  1900  under 
the  title  "On  the  Wing  of  Occasions."  Republished  in  1909 
as  "Kidnaping  of  President  Lincoln,"  by  Doubleday.  Cur 
tis  Publishing  Co.  1899,  1900. 

"Little  Mr.  Thimblefinger  and  His  Queen  Country,  and 
What  the  Children  Saw  and  Heard  There."  Illustrated  by 
Oliver  Herford.  Boston:  Houghton.  November  21,  1894. 

(For  sequel  see  "Mr.  Rabbit  at  Home.'') 

"Little  Union  Scout :  A  Tale  of  Tennessee  during  the 
War."  Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.  New  York :  McClure, 
Phillips  &  Co.  April  15,  1904.  Appeared  serially  in  the 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  February  6-March  17,  1904. 

"Making  of  a  Statesman,  and  Other  Stories."  New 
York :  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.  March  25,  1902. 

"Mingo,  and  Other  Sketches  in  Black  and  White."  Bos 
ton:  Ticknor  &  Co.  June  15,  1887. 

"Mr.  Rabbit  at  Home."  Sequel  to  "Little  Mr.  Thimble- 
finger."  Illustrated  by  Oliver  Herford.  Boston:  Hough- 
ton.  October  18,  1895. 

"Nights  with  Uncle  Remus:  Myths  and  Legends  of  the 
Old  Plantation."  Illustrated  by  F.  S.  Church.  Boston: 
Ticknor  &  Co.  1883,  1887.  Boston:  Houghton.  1883, 
1898,  1902,  1904.  First  published  in  Scribner's  Monthly, 
beginning  June,  1881,  and  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  be 
ginning  May  22,  1881. 

"On  the  Plantation :  A  Story  of  a  Georgia  Boy's  Adven 
tures  during  the  War."  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  Kemble.  New 
York :  Appleton.  April  9,  1892.  Largely  autobiographical. 
(An  English  edition  of  this  book  appeared  under  the  title 
"Plantation  Printer."  London:  James  R.  Osgood.  Mcll- 
vaine  &  Co.  1892.) 


Bibliography  439 

"On  the  Wing  of  Occasions."  Being  the  authorized  ver 
sion  of  certain  curious  episodes  of  the  late  Civil  War,  in 
cluding  the  hitherto  suppressed  narrative  of  the  kidnaping 
of  President  Lincoln.  New  York:  Doubleday.  September 
24,  1900.  (This  book  also  appeared  under  the  title  "On  the 
Wings  of  Circumstance,"  published  in  1900.  Republished 
in  1909  as  "Kidnaping  of  President  Lincoln.")  All  of  the 
stories  in  this  book  appeared  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post 
before  being  collected  in  book  form. 

"Plantation  Pageants."  Illustrated  by  E.  Boyd  Smith. 
Boston :  Houghton.  October  4,  1899. 

"Plantation  Printer."  (Same  as  American  edition  of  "On 
the  Plantation.") 

"Shadow  between  His  Shoulder  Blades."  Illustrated  by 
George  Harding.  Boston :  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  1909. 

"Sister  Jane :  Her  Friends  and  Acquaintances."  A  narra 
tive  of  certain  events  and  episodes  transcribed  from  the 
papers  of  the  late  William  Wornum.  Boston:  Houghton. 
November  19,  1896.  (The  central  incident  in  this  book  had 
been  previously  used  in  "The  Romance  of  Rockville.") 

"Stories  of  Georgia."  Illustrated  by  A.  I.  Keller,  Guy 
Rose,  B.  W.  Clinedinst,  and  others.  New  York :  American 
Book  Co.  October  20,  1896.  (Also  published  under  the 
title  "Georgia  from  the  Invasion  of  De  Soto  to  Recent 
Times."  New  York :  Appleton.  November  7,  1896.) 

"Stories  of  the  South."  By  Joel  Chandler  Harris  and 
others.  New  York :  Scribner's.  1899. 

"Story  of  Aaron  (So  Named),  the  Son  of  Ben  Ali,  Told 
by  His  Friends  and  Acquaintances."  Illustrated  by  Oliver 
Herford.  Boston  :  Houghton.  October  7,  1896. 

"Tales  of  the  Home  Folks  in  Peace  and  War."  Boston : 
Houghton.  March  29,  1898. 

"Tar  Baby,  and  Other  Rhymes  of  Uncle  Remus."  Illus 
trated  by  A.  B.  Frost  and  E.  W.  Kemble.  New  York: 
Appleton.  September  30,  1904. 

"Told  by  Uncle  Remus."  New  stories  of  the  old  plan 
tation.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost,  J.  M.  Conde,  and  Frank 
Verbeck.  New  York :  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.  October  28, 
1905. 

"Uncle  Remus  and  Brer  Rabbit."  New  York:  Stokes. 
September  26,  1907. 


440  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends."  Old  plantation  stories, 
songs,  and  ballads,  with  sketches  of  negro  character.  Illus 
trated  by  A.  B.  Frost.  Boston:  Houghton.  1892,  1899, 
1900,  1902,  1914.  (Visitors'  edition,  1913,  with  introduc 
tion  by  Mrs.  M.  L.  Avary.  Copyright  by  Uncle  Remus 
Memorial  Association.  Same  as  Houghton  edition,  1914.) 

"Uncle  Remus  and  the  Little  Boy."  Illustrated  by  J.  M. 
Conde.  Boston:  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  Copyright,  1910. 

"Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings."  Illustrated 
by  F.  S.  Church  and  J.  H.  Moses.  New  York :  Appleton. 
November,  1880.  (Numerous  American  and  English  edi 
tions.  See  Introduction.) 

"Wally  Wanderoon  and  His  Story-Telling  Machine." 
Illustrated  by  Karl  Moseley.  New  York:  McClure,  Phil 
lips  &  Co.  September  15,  1903. 

HARRIS  AS  EDITOR 

"Library  of  Southern  Literature."  Compiled  under  the 
direct  supervision  of  Southern  men  of  letters.  Edwin  An 
derson  Alderman,  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  editors  in  chief ; 
Charles  William  Kent,  literary  editor.  Edition  de  luxe. 
New  Orleans,  Atlanta,  etc. :  Martin  &  Hoyt  Co.  1908-1913. 

"Life  of  Henry  W.  Grady."  Including  his  writings  and 
speeches.  A  memorial  volume  compiled  by  Mr.  Grady's 
coworkers  on  the  Atlanta  Constitution.  Edited  by  J.  C. 
Harris.  New  York :  Cassell.  1890. 

"Merrymaker."  Edited  by  J.  C.  Harris.  Boston :  Hall, 
Locke  &  Co.  Copyright,  1902.  (Young  Folks'  Library, 
Volume  II.,  third  edition.)  Issued  in  1901  under  the  title 
"The  Book  of  Fun  and  Frolic." 

INTRODUCTIONS 

Field,  Eugene.  Complete  works.  New  York :  Scribner's. 
1907.  ("The  House,"  Volume  VIII.  of  the  works.) 

Frost,  A.  B.  Drawings,  with  verses  by  Wallace  Irwin. 
New  York :  Fox.  1905. 

Goulding,  F.  R.  "Young  Marooners."  New  York :  Dodd, 
Mead.  New  edition. 

Knight,  Lucian  Lamar.  "Reminiscences  of  Famous 
Georgians."  Atlanta :  Franklin  Co.  1907. 


Bibliography  441 

Russell,  Irvvin.  "Poems."  New  York:  Century  Co. 
(Copyright,  1888.) 

Stanton,  Frank  L.  "Songs  of  a  Day."  Atlanta :  Foote  & 
Davies.  1893. 

Stanton,  Frank  L.  "Songs  of  the  Soil."  New  York: 
Appleton.  1894. 

Wheeden,  Howard.  "Bandanna  Ballads."  New  York: 
Doubleday.  1899,  1904- 

"World's  Wit  and  Humor,  The."    New  York :  Doubleday. 

SHORT  STORIES,  EDITORIALS,  ETC.,  IN  PERIODICALS 

A  complete  index  to  all  of  Mr.  Harris's  stories  may  be 
found  in  the  Reference  Department  of  the  Carnegie  Library 
of  Atlanta. 

"Abolition  of  the  Soul."  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Decem 
ber  29,  1900.  (Editorial.) 

"American  Type,  The."  The  Current,  December  13, 
1884.  (Published  in  Chicago.) 

"At  Teague   Poteet's."     Century  Magazine,   May-June, 

1883. 

"Bill  Boring  and  His  Drum."  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
October  7,  1905. 

"Brer  B'ar's  Big  House."  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home 
Magazine,  July,  1910,  page  7. 

"Brer  Fox  Loses  a  Bet."  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home 
Magazine,  June,  1908,  page  22. 

"Brer  Rabbit  Causes  Brer  Fox  to  Lose  His  Hide."  Uncle 
Remus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  January,  1908,  page  9. 

"Brer  Rabbit  Has  Trouble  with  the  Moon."  Uncle  Re 
mus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  November,  1907,  page  19. 

"Brother  Rabbit,  Brother  Fox,  and  the  Two  Fat  Pullets." 
Metropolitan  Magazine,  March,  1906. 

"Brother  Rabbit  Goes  on  a  Bear  Hunt."  Metropolitan 
Magazine,  May,  1906. 

"Cheap  Criticisms  of  Dear  Beliefs."  (Editorial.)  Sat 
urday  Evening  Post,  July  21,  1900. 

"Cousin  Anne  Crofton."    Ainslee's  Magazine,  April,  1903. 

"Haeckel's  Unguessed  Riddle."  (Editorial.)  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  May  18,  1901. 

"Hornet  with  Stimulating  Sting."  (Editorial.)  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  October  13,  1900. 


442  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"How  Brer  Rabbit  Saved  Brer  B'ar's  Life/'  Uncle  Re- 
mus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  September,  1907,  page  4. 

"How  Brother  Rabbit  Brought  Family  Trouble  on  Broth 
er  Fox."  Metropolitan  Magazine,  June,  1906. 

"Impty  Umpty  and  the  Blacksmith."  Metropolitan  Mag 
azine,  December,  1905. 

"Little  Miss  Johns."  Saturday  Evening  Post,  December 
8-15,  1900. 

"Miss  Irene."  Scrlbner's  Monthly,  1900;  Volume 
XXVIL,  page  216. 

"Miss  Little  Sally."  Uncle  Remus' s,  the  Home  Maga 
zine,  December,  1907,  page  18. 

"Most  Beautiful  Bird  in  the  World."  Metropolitan  Mag 
azine,  September,  1906. 

"Mr.  Sanders  on  the  Democrats."  (Editorial.)  World's 
Work,  1900;  Volume  I.,  page  431. 

"Mr.  Sanders  to  a  Boston  Capitalist."  (Editorial.) 
World's  Work,  1900;  Volume  I.,  page  196. 

"Mystery  of  the  Red  Fox."  Scrlbner's  Monthly,  Septem 
ber,  1893. 

"Negro  as  the  South  Sees  Him."  (Editorial.)  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  January  2,  1904. 

"Negro  Customs."    Youth's  Companion,  June  n,  1885. 

"Negro  of  To-Day."  (Editorial.)  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  January  30,  1904." 

"Negro  Problems."  (Editorial.)  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  February  27,  1904. 

"On  the  Newspaper  Habit."  (Editorial.)  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  August  4,  1900. 

"Poor  Man's  Chance."  (Editorial.)  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  July  7,  1900. 

"Progress  and  the  Performing  Bear."  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  March  n,  1905. 

"Prophets  of  Ruin  and  the  People."  (Editorial.)  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  December  15,  1900. 

"Rainy  Day  with  Uncle  Remus."  Scrlbner's  Monthly, 
1897;  Volume  XXII.,  pages  241,  243,  608. 

looker  T.  Washington  wrote  to  Mr.  Harris  an  immediate  letter 
of  thanks  for  this  editorial.  The  letter  was  among  Mr.  Harris's 
papers. 


Bibliography  443 

"Romantic  Tragedy."  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home  Maga 
zine,  November,  1912,  page  8. 

"Rosalie."     Century   Magazine,    1901;    Volume   LXI1., 

"Safeguard  of  Our  Business  Interests."  (Editorial.) 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  December  13,  1900. 

"Sea  Island  Hurricanes:  The  Devastation."  Scribner's 
Magazine,  1894;  Volume  XV.,  pages  229-247. 

"Sea  Island  Hurricanes:  The  Relief."  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  1894;  Volume  XV.,  pages  267-284.  (Account  of 
storms  on  islands  between  Savannah  and  Charleston.) 

"Story  of  the  Doodang."  Uncle  Remus  s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  August,  1907,  page  18. 

"Taily  Po."    Metropolitan  Magazine,  January,  1906. 

"Teaching  a  Turtle  to  Fly."     Youth's  Companion,  Octo- 

C"Tyranny  of  Tender-Hearted  Men."  (Editorial.)  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  October  13,  1900. 

"Uncle  Remus  on  the  Language  of  Birds.  Youths 
Companion,  September  3,  1885. 

"Uncle  Remus's  Wonder  Story."  Youth's  Companion, 
September  10,  1885. 

"Uncle  Remus's  Ha'nt."    Youth's  Companion,  December 

I7"Views  of  Mr.  Billy  Sanders."     (Editorial.)     World's 
Work,  November,  1900;  Volume  I.,  pages  82-84. 

VERSES  IN  PERIODICALS 

"Brer  Rabbit  and  Tar  Baby."  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
September  24,  1904. 

"Brer  Rabbit  and  the  Pimmerly  Plum.  Uncle  Remus  s, 
the  Home  Magazine,  February,  1908,  page  14. 

"De  'Gater  and  Rabbit."  Saturday  Evening  Post,  No 
vember  7,  1903. 

"Fashion  of  the  Swamp."    Saturday  Evening  Post,  Janu- 


,  House!"     An  Uncle  Remus  Song.     Uncle  Re 
mus's  the  Home  Magazine,  October,  1907,  page  4. 

"Hog-Killin'  Time."    Saturday  Evening  Post,  January  6, 
1906. 


/\  /}  /I  The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

"How  Brer  Rabbit  Raised  the  Dust."  Uncle  Remus's, 
the  Home  Magazine,  September,  1907,  page  4. 

"Juliette/'  Saturday  Evening  Post,  April  21,  1900. 
Written  in  1870-76  and  previously  published  in  the  Savan 
nah  News  and  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  as  noted  and 
reproduced  in  the  present  volume,  Part  I.,  page  109. 

"Mr.  Rabbit,  Run."  Saturday  Evening  Post,  September 
19,  1903. 

"Mr.  Sun  Takes  a  Holiday."  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
April  22,  1905. 

"Or  Joshway  an'  de  Sun."  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home 
Magazine,  July,  1908,  page  22. 

"Remembrance,  A."  (First  printed  in  1871.)  Uncle 
Remus's,  the  Home  Magazine,  August,  1907,  page  6.  (Ear 
lier  composition  and  publication  noted  in  the  present  vol 
ume,  Part  I.,  page  99.) 

"Sea  Wind."  Uncle  Remus'  st  the  Home  Magazine,  No 
vember,  1908,  page  5.  (Earlier  composition  and  publica 
tion  noted  in  the  present  volume,  Part  I.,  page  73.) 

"Song  in  the  Night."  (Composed  when  the  author  was 
twenty-two  years  of  age.)  Uncle  Remus'  s,  the  Home  Mag 
azine,  June,  1912,  page  u. 

"The  Old  Year  and  the  New."  Uncle  Remus'  s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  January,  1912,  page  22.  Atlanta  Constitution, 
January  i,  1878.  (See  references  and  reproductions  in  the 
present  volume,  Part  I.,  pages  72,  107,  and  164.) 

"Uncle  Remus  Addresses  Brother  Wind."  Uncle  Re- 
muss,  the  Home  Magazine,  December,  1907,  page  10. 

"Uncle  Remus  Sings  a  Song."  Uncle  Remus'  s,  the  Home 
Magazine,  July,  1907,  page  31. 

"Wull-er-the-Wutts."  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home  Maga 
zine,  September,  1911,  page  5. 

"You  Can  Hear  Me  CallinV  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
September  3,  1904. 


Many  letters  which  were  written  by  Mr.  Harris  to  his 
daughters  while  they  were  attending  boarding  school  (1897- 
98)  appeared  in  Uncle  Remus's,  the  Home  Magazine  from 
September,  1908,  to  December,  1911,  and  October,  1912. 
Mrs.  Julian  Harris  is  collecting  the  letters  for  publication 
by  Houghton. 


INDEX 

PART  I.  BIOGRAPHICAL 


"A  Christmas  Regret/'  84. 
"A  Georgia  Fox  Hunt,"  36,  79. 
"Agnes,"  74- 

"All  Quiet  on  the  Potomac,"  80. 
"A  Remembrance,"  99. 
Andrew,  James  O.,  9. 
Atlanta  Constitution,  12,  13,  72, 
73,   79,   81,   87,    99,    105,    109, 

Il6,  Il8,   121,   122,  123,  125,  132, 
138,   145,    147,    ISO,   151. 

Augusta  Chronicle,  91,  97- 
Avary,  Mrs.  Murta  Lockett,  46. 

Baskervill,  Dr.  W.  M.,  6. 

Beers,  Mrs.  Ethel,  80. 

Bill  Arp,  120. 

"Brer  Rabbit  and  Mr.  Fox,"  2, 

3,  137. 
Bret  Harte,  122. 

Cabaniss,  H.  A.,  76,  89,  106. 
Cable,  George  W.,  6. 
Carnegie,  Andrew,  4. 
"Christmas,"  58. 
Cooke,  John  Esten,  71. 

Davidson,  J.  W.,  80,  81,  82. 
Derby,  J.  C,  150. 

Eatonton,  Georgia,  9,  75. 
Emory  College,  14,  15,  20,  43. 
Evans,  Augusta,  71. 

Feast,  H.  L.,  71. 
Fontaine,  Lamar,  80. 
Forsyth,  Ga.,  36,  75,  85,  89,  114, 
US- 


Gordon,  John  B.,  9. 

Grady,  Henry  W.,  9,  30,  103,  104, 

114,  121. 
Guernsey,  Dr.  A.  H.,  80. 

Harden,  William,  107. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler:  Birth, 
Eatonton,  Ga.,  9;  Turnwold, 
19-36;  early  literary  influ 
ences,  37-68;  at  Macon,  Ga., 
70;  at  New  Orleans,  La.,  71- 
75;  at  Forsyth,  Ga.,  75-91;  at 
Savannah,  Ga.,  91-114;  married 
Esther  LaRose,  101 ;  at  Atlanta, 
Ga.,  115-152;  death,  152;  grave 
in  Westview  Cemetery,  152; 
epitaph,  152. 

Harris,  Julian,  22, 

Harris,  Mrs  Joel  Chandler,  100, 
101. 

Harrison,  James  P.,  42,  75,  85, 
89,  114,  115. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton,  71,  83. 

Hill,  Ben,  9. 

Howell,  Clark,  116,  124. 

Howell,  Evan  P.,  114-118. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  122. 

Hubner,  Mrs.  Charles  W.,  130. 

Hunt,  B.  W.,  14. 

"In  Memoriam,"  no. 

"January  I,  1874,"  107. 
"Jeems  Robinson,"   124. 
Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm,  9. 
"Juliette,"  109. 

(445) 


446 


The  Life  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 


Kimball  House,  86,  115. 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  2. 

Lamar,  L.  Q.  C,  9,  71- 
Lanier,  Sidney,  9,  70,  So,  127. 
LaRose,  Captain  Peter,  100-102. 
Lee,  Ivy,  34- 
Lee,  Rev.  J.  W.,  25. 
"Literature  of  the  South,"   147. 
"Lost,"  41. 

"Macaria,"  58,  60. 

Manry,  J.  T.,  85,  88. 

Mark  Twain,  5. 

"Mary,"  57- 

"Maxwell,  Joe,"  17,  29. 

Mercer  University,  15. 

Monroe  Advertiser,  75,  76,  no, 

145. 
"Moselle,"  53. 

"Nature,"  56. 

"Negro  Folklore,"  139-144- 

"Nora  Belle,"  83. 

"On  the  Plantation,"  16, 33,  67, 79- 
"Our  Minnie  Grey,"  56. 
Owens,  William,  132,  133. 

Page,  Thomas  Nelson,  5. 
Pierce,  George  F.,  9,  14. 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  41. 
"Provincialism  in  Literature:  A 
Defense  of  Boston,"  148. 

Reid,  Captain  John  S.,  14. 
Riley,    James    Whitcomb,    5. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  4. 
Russell,  Irwin,  127. 

"Sabbath  Evening  in  the  Coun 
try,"  40,  41- 

Sam  Small  ("Old  Si"),  72,  123, 
126,  128,  129. 


Saturday   Evening   Post,   109. 
Savannah  News,  n,  73,  87,  91, 

102,  107,  109,  118,  145. 
"Sister  Jane,"  15,  16,  71. 
Smith,  Dr.  Alphonso  C.,  2,  81. 
"Snap  Bean  Farm,"  10. 
Stanton,  Frank  L.,  23,  102. 
Starke,  Mrs.  Georgia,  83,  89,  92, 

95- 
Stephens,  Alexander  H.,  9,  138. 

"Tar  Baby  Story,"  3,  150. 

The  Countryman,  17,  18,  21,  24, 

27,  28,  29,  35,  37,  38,  39,  40, 
41,  42,  44,  45,  47,  48,  49,  50, 
53,  58,  66,  69,  73,  145- 

"The  Old  and  the  New,"  72. 
"The  Plough  Hand's  Song,"  131. 
"The    Romance    of    Rockville," 

121,  122,  131,  146. 
"The  Sea  Wind,"  73. 
'The  Sign  of  the  Wren's  Nest," 

4,  6,  152. 
Thompson,  Col.  W.  T.,  87,  91, 

106,  107,  112,  113,  123,  140,  150. 
Toombs,  Robert,  9. 
Turner,  J.  A.,  13,  19,  23,  24,  25, 

28,  30,  31,  32,  34,  35,  36,  43,  45, 
46,  48,  49,  53,  63,  66,  68,  69,  113. 

(1)  "Independent  Press,"  44; 

(2)  "The  Plantation,  A  Quar 
terly  Review,"  44;    (3)    "The 
Tomahawk,"    44;     (4)     "Tur 
ner's  Monthly,"  44. 

Turn  wold,    Ga.,    19,    20,   31,    32, 

Si,  88.  U3. 
"Uncle  Remus,"   i,  2,  3,  4,   113, 

124,    137,    138,    145,    149,    I5i; 

"Camp    Meeting    Song,"    130; 

"Corn-Shucking    Song,"    131 ; 

"U.     R.     and     the     Savannah 


Index 


447 


Darky,"  132;  "Revival 
Hymn,"  122,  128,  130;  "Poli 
tics,"  125;  Magazine,  109;  Me 
morial  Association,  6. 


Westview   Cemetery,  152. 
Williams,  W.  R,  19. 
Wilson,  Woodrow,  15. 
Woodrow,  James,  15. 


PART  II.  EARLY  LITERARY  EFFORTS 


"Accursed,"  165. 
"A  Vision,"  165. 
"Moonlight,"  162. 
"Murder,"  163. 
"Nelly  White,"  159. 
"Obituary,"  164. 
"Party  ism,"  157. 
"Poe  and  Griswold,"  167. 
"Sensual  Pleasures,"  157. 
"The  Battle  Bird,"  159. 
"The  Old  Year  and  the  New," 
164. 

Contributions  to  the  Atlanta  Con 
stitution 

"A  Country  Church,"  176. 

"A  Country  Newspaper,"  195. 

"A  Georgia  Fox  Hunt,"  270. 

"A  Guzzled  Guest,"  202. 

"A  Romantic  Rascal,"  236. 

"A  Summer  Mood,"  173. 

"A  Tale  of  Two  Tramps,"  213. 

"An  Atlanta  Poet,"  188. 

"As     to     Southern    Literature," 

192. 

"Christmas  Time,"  185. 
"Cornfield    Peas,"    174. 
"Georgia  Crackers,"  179. 
"Love  in  Idleness,"  190. 


"Notes  of  New  Magazines,"  191. 
"On  Wings  of  Wind,"  207. 
"One  Man's  History,"  228. 
"Proemial  to  Putnam,"  221. 
"Sassafras  Season,"  172. 
"Seward's  Georgia  Sweetheart," 

201. 

"The  Georgians,"  195. 
"The  Old  Plantation,"  268. 
"The    Romance    of    Rockville," 

282. 
"The  Puritan  and  the  Cracker," 

187. 

"Tom   Bussey,"  208. 
"Uncle  Remus  as  a  Rebel,"  263. 

Bibliography 

Articles  in  newspapers,  435. 
Books  concerning  J.  C.  Harris, 

429-431. 

Books  by  J.  C.  Harris,  437. 
Books   edited   by   J.    C.   Harris, 

440. 
Introductions   by   J.    C.    Harris, 

440. 

Letters  of  J.  C.  Harris,  444. 
Periodicals,  431,  434. 
Portraits  of  J.  C  Harris,  436. 
Verses  in  periodicals,  443. 


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